


National Anthem

by Shmeowzow



Series: Money, Power, Glory [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, References to Moriarty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 86,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmeowzow/pseuds/Shmeowzow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ms. Azalea runs a very exclusive entertainment company in London, but runs into some unexpected trouble. A dark-haired enigmatic man enters her life under benevolent pretense, but what's his real angle? A game begins between two people bored with the status-quo. What will happen when the kingdoms they have built for themselves intertwine and turn each other upside down?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Money is the reason we exist, everybody knows it, it's a fact, Kiss Kiss._

"Boss, they found her."

 _Shit_. My breath leaves my body in a venomous hiss as I try to regulate my breathing enough to speak evenly. Clutching the cell phone to my ear so hard the plastic casing begins to creak, I respond, "Where was she found?"

The voice on the other end of the line betrays no emotion; clean, steady. That's why Robert is my right hand, or at least one of the myriad of reasons. He's so good at keeping cool. "Near Regent's Park."

 _Dammit, Tommy._  This is the absolute last straw. "Okay. You know what to do," I say, hoping he senses how seriously pissed I am.

"Yes Ma'am."

I hit the End Call button on my phone furiously,and yank open the drawer I keep my purse in after punching the key code in the safeguard on it. The pin-pad lock on the door to my office beeps as it shuts behind me. I'm already punching another number into my phone as my Manolo's click against the pristine tile in the hallway. The call goes to voice mail, but immediately afterward, the device starts buzzing. I don't bother with pleasantries."It's time. The line has been crossed."

The corresponding answer is a hollow beep that ends the call, but I know the message has been received.

 

Rob is already there when I arrive at the windowless warehouse; it's one usually reserved for the Government's shady purposes, but I've made a few calls to secure it for my own use long ago, when I first suspected I might need it. Having clients in high places always pays off well.

Rob is flanked by his second in command, a very tall, very well built woman named Greta, with her dirty blond hair up in a high and tight ponytail. When I say “well built” I don't mean toned; she's a damn monolith. Not to the point of parody, but just this side of normal. If she gets the job done, I can care less what she looks like. Plus, she's intimidating, a very good trait to possess in her line of work. I don't entirely care for her, because she's very standoffish and has no sense of humor, but at the end of the day I'm happy to have her on my payroll.

Handing her my purse, Rob opens the creaking door to the forsaken building and I follow suit, with Greta pursuing just far enough behind me, purse slung over her shoulder. 

We arrive in a room with a two way mirror and a table, and I can see that little shit Tommy Banks perched on a thin metal chair in the room on the other side, bound by his arms and ankles. One of his goons was pacing the wall behind him, nervously chewing at the nails and skin of his fingers. If he's worried now, he's really going to be surprised here in a few minutes.

Robert opens a case on the stainless steel table in front of us, and Greta is posted at the door, still cradling my purse in the crook of her arm. Within the case is a 9mm, black and white matte Browning Hi Power. It is a gorgeous creature, with some custom engravings and accouterments as well. I'll have to look in to getting a silencer for it in the near future. Stroking the soft matte with my index finger, I hear Rob say, "The Senator sends his regards, and says to not use it on himself, if you please."

I snort, even though its crass. One of my bad habits. It doesn't matter anyways, I'm not in any kind of mixed company. "He's so naughty. Smart man, though."

The gun is a kind and useful gift from the same Client I have garnered the use of the building from, and one that I plan to utilize very shortly. Rob removes the firearm from the case, handing it to me demurely,  barrel toward himself. I thank him, and hold it pointed at the concrete floor beneath us at an angle.

Both men in the look up and bristle as Rob opens the door, following me in to perch in the corner with his arms crossed. I hear Tommy curse as I approach, wriggling around in his restraints, and it makes me smirk a little bit. Don't get me wrong, I'm mad as hell, but if you can't find little ways to enjoy yourself in situations like these, then you're in the wrong business. "You bitch. You fucking cunt! I knew this had to be you."

The nameless man that had been brought here with Tommy only stares at us from the back of the room, and makes no attempt to address me or even move. Snaps for that guy. Idly, I roll my eyes, switch the gun to my left hand, and bring my closed fist across Tommy's left cheekbone. Not as hard as I'm able, that would be a waste of time and energy. Just hard enough to let he and his guest know how much I hate it when belligerent men yell expletives at women. He grumbles and spits a bit of blood on the floor near my shoe, which is good because it means his ugly crooked teeth broke skin in his mouth; he's lucky none of it is gracing the expensive black fabric with its presence, because I might have lost it and shot him right then. "Didn't your mother teach you not to be rude to a lady?"

Still apparently not aware just how much shit he's gotten himself into, he laughs. "My mother was a bitch too. I killed her."

My face falls, eyes going dark as the black matte finish of the pistol I'm switching back to my dominant hand; some part of his brain that actually functions on a normal level must register the change too, because his face says he finally figured out that I am no longer fucking around. I raise the pistol from its neutral angled position pointing to he floor, to a less neutral position pointing at the ceiling. Building them up to the finale is key. "I don't know how many chances I gave you to stop interfering with _my_ business, Banks, but it was clearly one too many and you just punched the last hole in your voucher."

He only looks a tic more uncomfortable than before, his beady little eyes twitching with the effort to find some words, some phrase, something to get him out of here alive. Finally, he grumbles, "My actions are none of your concern."

Pursing my lips, I say, "You're right. Illegal sex trafficking isn't my concern. When it becomes my concern, is when one of those girls comes to me for help. When those poor girls that you beat, and lie to, and force into indentured slavery, all in the hopes of coming to another country for a better life, come to me for  _HELP_ , and I  _HELP_  them, it is my fucking business."

Tommy doesn't laugh, or scoff, or snort, and I give him credit for that at least, but he does say, "Helping them is not your business, those girls are mine, fair and square. We've been through this before."

I snap, rushing his chair with full force and shouldering it over. His stupid head cracks against the floor and he's dazed. His plus-one makes a mewling sound, and at least he's smart enough to be scared, but I still scream at him to shut his fucking mouth. I point the gun at Tommy, whose eyes are finally wide and glistening with the proper terror his situation should already elicit.

"Do you think this is a fucking game, Tommy? Because I'm not playing. I wasn't playing the first time you tracked one down and hurt her, and I wasn't playing the second time, either. Now you've killed an innocent woman who was under my protection, and I am so far from playing its unreal."

He stammers, tries to speak, but I load the chamber of the gun and point it back at its target. "No, no. You don't get to open your mouth anymore. We're done talking. Now it's time for business."

Keeping my cool and unblinking eyes locked on Tommy, I point the gun at Goon #2. "Listen carefully, you worthless pile of garbage, you will leave this building, and you will tell whoever it is that's left for you to answer to that the "game" ends here, because they are clearly under the impression that I'm dicking around."

"Wait, what do you-"

My eyes cut towards him and he blanches, the words stopping short from his lips and ceasing to continue. "Don't speak. Just listen. I know you have ears, but if you'd like me to remedy you that, I can have it arranged."

His greasy hair falls into his eyes as shakes his head, all cringing and confused and terrified. My gaze returns to Tommy and I steady the gun back on him, taking a deep breath. "You tell them its over."

The hammer falls, and blood that hadn't quite gotten on my shoes earlier finds its home there now. I curse as Goon #2 gasps and cries, clawing at the wall, probably upset that he can no longer hear. My party was all equipped with plugs; preparation is important. Handing Rob the gun, I ask him to call my special dry cleaner and tell her she has her work cut out for her. He nods and heads back into the adjacent room to call the clean up crew.

My gaze falls on Greta, and I hold my hand out for my bag. I glance back at the pitiful creature in the corner. “Make sure that idiot gets out of here alive. We need him.”

Greta grunts in the affirmative and I take one last look at the terrified lackey. “If you don't do as I told you, I will find you, and trust me when I say that you won't go out as easily as he did,” I say, motioning to Tommy's body.

He cringes, breathing very heavily in and out. Hope he doesn't hyperventilate. “Y-yes ma'am.”

 

I'm lost in thought on the drive home. How did I let this situation go so far? I should have put a bullet in Banks the moment I found out what he was doing. I'm unsure of who he may be working for, and stepping on the toes of the criminal world is bad for business, to be sure. I don't usually do this kind of thing; bloody my own hands. If need be, Robert and his team take care of it. That's what they are paid for. My business, however isn't one of violence or criminal activity at all, but sometimes colors mix and lines are crossed that make it so.

When I get to my condo I immediately turn the stereo on. Lana Del Ray's soft croon calms me as I remove my soiled clothing, placing them in a black sports bag that I leave by the door to be spirited away to the cleaners later. I'm sure I'll be receiving a venomous bill for all that.

As I melt into the scalding bubble bath I've drawn for myself, my thoughts go to Luna Rayshire, the tragic girl who's life lost is the result of tonight's fiasco. For some time I've been aware of the multiple rings of human traffickers that operate in the underbelly of this pitiful city, and violence against helpless women seeking a new life of promise, followed by false hope and detriment, is something I am altogether against but don't have the means or will to do much of anything about.

These kinds of occurrences are part of why I run the type of business I do, to try and help provide an outlet for the need of such filthy transactions, but again, there's only so much I can accomplish, even with my resources. I'm a practical woman, I know there's no way to get rid of prostitution, and as long as there are downtrodden women using their bodies to feed themselves and their families, there will be men trying to exploit them, and creating a self-fulfilling cycle as they hoodwink more helpless girls from other countries to come here and do much of the same. I know there's nothing of real substance that I can do to help, but I've found a tiny outlet, and hope to make a difference in as many of those poor women's lives as I have the means to do.

For a little over a year I've been offering refuge and escape to those lucky enough to know they need it. A kind of protection program, if you will. Some of the women are offered jobs on my payroll, if they're well suited. Others I simply try to whisk away to a better life, far from the ones they're having forced on them, and our recently deceased Tommy Banks; a kind of mini-boss, I have to assume, because Christ knows he was too stupid not to be a middle man, was unfortunately for us both, delegated the task of returning them to their cages. I warned him in no uncertain terms that he was to desist or suffer the consequences, but he and his cartel had apparently not taken my very well backed threats to heart. I'm only a woman after all, notable or not, and most men like them take offense to women in power, and suffer their own minds not to think that I have ruthlessness or means to carry anything of real substance out. Well, now they know.

 

A few days later, as I enter my office, I'm greeted with the blue message light flashing on my desk telephone. A message already is a bit odd, but my administrative assistant gets here a few hours earlier than me to handle appointments, so its not entirely unusual. Sitting down and booting up my desktop, I hit the speaker and message button. As expected, it's my assistant's tinny voice that comes muffling out. "Sorry to bother you so early Ma'am, but there have been a few calls from someone trying to get a personal appointment to speak with you. Ring me as soon as you get time, please."

I have to admit I'm a bit ruffled. Kerri knows I don't take personal appointments, even from distinguished clients. I noticed she wasn't at her desk when I initially entered; probably hiding out for as long as she can. I'm curious as to who thinks they deserve the privilege of an audience, so I punch in Kerri's extension to speak with her. "I'm so sorry to bother you Ma'am, and I know this is very unusual, but the assistant who made the call was very insistent about his employer being granted an audience with you."

"Are they aware I don't do one-on-one meetings? My company is exclusive to paying clients, Kerri. You know this."

She goes on, voice ringing a little less chipper than usual, and I can't guess what has gotten her so out of sorts. "Yes Ma'am, I did let them know this is a very exclusive business and you're not usually open to private discussions of any kind, but h-he did say it was very important, and that his employer said he would only speak to you and that this was strictly a business call."

Its a while before I can decide what to say. I have to admit I'm curious if this has anything to do with that cretin Banks, but figure in the end that if it is, whoever thinks they have the right to address me about it needs to be dealt with. "Did this assistant mention his employers name?"

There's a pause. Maybe she's checking her notes. "N-no Ma'am. He only referred to him as his employer."

What a twist. A man with no name coming to see me about an also unnamed subject. "Okay, Kerri. Don't have a cow. Call them back and schedule an appointment. I may know what this is about."

I can sense her mental sigh of relief, even though no such thing is uttered aloud. "Yes Ma'am, of course. Right away."

I end the call and put the issue on the back burner; getting down to real business, I start organizing parties, wardrobes, and events for our top tier clients. I also organize some snail mail correspondence and simple little gift baskets, thanking them for choosing our services and reminding them we're always available. You'd be surprised how many compliments I get on utilizing the age old art of snail mail to keep contact with clients and express gratitude. Its a much more personal, and in my opinion, classy way to show them we care about their patronage.

Its barely been five minutes and I get an instant message from Kerri telling me that my appointment would be here at 1:00 PM. That was fast. An odd feeling grows in the pit of my stomach, and I have to admit I'm starting to worry a bit. But, no use worrying about what's to come. I simply have to deal with it when its time.

Again shaking it off, I get back to work, but not before calling Rob to let him know about the situation and to tighten security today. He too is surprised that I'm even allowing the transaction to take place. I tell him not to worry, and that I still have the Senator's thoughtful gift tucked away in my desk. Not that I intend to add to my body count this quickly, or damage my office's beautiful upholstery, but it's nice to know I have some insurance.

One of the worker-bee's comes by with a tray of hot Chrysanthemum tea and a neat, glass plate of assorted vegetables, the latter of which I ignore. As I demurely sip at the caramel colored liquid, contained within a cup of beautiful Fine Bone China from the Wedgwood Collection with a delicate pattern of wild strawberries; another thoughtful gift from a client, there's a knock at my office door. Setting my cup down, I take a deep breath and ready myself for anything. Running my hands down my thighs to straiten my skirt, I call my guest to enter, now fully composed. Kerri opens the door, and she is followed by a very well groomed man I don't recognize, wearing impeccably tailored clothing. I nod for Kerri to leave us, and I almost think I hear her break into a jog away from my door, which would be unwise in her tottering heels.

The stranger and I regard each other for a few short moments. His perfectly polished alabaster skin is an offset to his well styled deep black hair and dark eyes. Hands are resting in the pockets of a gray pinstripe suit, tied together with some distinguished black loafers and a skinny white tie. Quite attractive, I decide, but smaller in build than I'm used to seeing in men. He appears to be of average height, but his narrow shoulders and waist are off-putting and make him seem smaller. I have no stones to throw in the height department, however, being only a flat 5'0". Obviously of higher class; an executive or CEO, maybe? The man's mouth and eyebrows quirk upward, inviting me to speak first. How polite. "You know his is highly irregular."

The smile broadens, but doesn't quite reach his eyes, which I find unusually unreadable. I'm a master of body language; have to be, in my line of work. His eyes tell me he's not one to give an inch away. Pursing my lips, I nod, inviting him to answer. I don't have all day. Pointing to my tray of refreshments, he states, "Now, that is some lovely China."

I notice he's chewing gum, which is in incredibly poor taste, and I'm losing my patience. "Thank you. You may request a cup of tea from it, if you stop wasting my time and tell me why you're here." 

I may be out of sorts, but I'm never a poor host. I almost feel sorry that I cannot offer him a seat, seeing as I never entertain guests in my office. He now wears a look of false humility, a shrugging expression as if to say, Oops, someone's testy. It is extremely agitating. "I'd be a fool to waste your time, that being, from what I hear, is extremely valuable."

I smile, and its my turn for the expression not to reach my eyes. "That's accurate."

He approaches my desk and extends a hand, a gesture asking for permission to kiss mine in greeting. I grant it to him, and his soft lips against my flesh gives me goosebumps, and I notice him noticing it. For a moment, his eyes light up. Not in a cheery way; something else. Predatory. I withdraw my hand back into my lap and discretely wipe it on my skirt as he introduces himself. "I'm James Moriarty. I never caught your assuredly lovely name."

"That's because I didn't give it. You may, however," I pause, turning a silver, embossed nameplate toward him, "refer to me as Ms. Azalea. Don't ask me to call you by your first name, and don't expect to hear mine. First name basis is long standing client privilege only."

Again, with the eyebrows. The way they slid hurriedly up and down at the drop of a hat, I'm surprised they don't try to detach and fly off of his face. His expressiveness is exhausting, and it's counteractive to his non-forthcoming attitude. "Seems a bit over the top for a call-girl house, doesn't it?"

I clear my throat in an attempt to keep calm, and choose my words carefully. "If you will excuse your extreme rudeness, I am not, and do not, nor have I ever, employed what you referred to as a "call-girl". Please remove your gum, now." 

I've had it with the fucking gum, and offer him a tissue from my desk. He takes it, politely removing the chewy gob from his mouth and depositing the tissue into his own pocket. "The Azalea Group consists of professional female company. We entertain, and attend parties as very well paid hostesses and guests. We're very well paid, because we're very good at what we do. We do not date, kiss, fondle, or sleep with clients and or guests. That's what whores do."

He seems surprised, and is quiet for a moment. Contemplative. When he does speak, he asks if he may have a cup of tea, now. I apologize for the cooling temperature and poor him a cup, which he takes graciously into his slender, pale grasp. I watch the full and pouted lips that graced my hand curl around my favorite China, and can't decide how to feel about any of this. He still hasn't made any of his intent clear, and has only served to offend myself and what I do for a living, which I take great pride in. If his intent is to make me uncomfortable, he has achieved his goal. "If I may make an correlation, the services you provide resemble those of Geisha then, do they not?"

"That's absolutely correct."

And they do. The Azalea Group operates almost exactly like the Okiya of old Kyoto. Girls in groups of two or more attend public or private parties. Most, but not all of them upscale, due to the cost of their entertainment. We do offer several more less exclusive packages for smaller events, but the brunt of the business is all black tie standard. The more senior and talented the girl, the bigger the price tag on having her at your event. We never rent the girls out one at a time, unless it is for a very privileged and well trusted client, and at a public venue. Doing so is crass and resembles too much the "call-girl" services Mr. Moriarty so rudely compared my company to. I only rarely attend events anymore myself, and my prices are incredibly steep. I only cater to a client if he is established or has been recommended by someone who is. I'm more of a true Okasan, Madam, Manager, CEO, whatever you want to call it. I handle more business that had previously been delegated to other employees at the peak of my entertaining days.

Moriarty seems contemplative now; I can practically see the abacus in his head as invisible fingers move figures back and forth. His expressiveness, I decide, will be his weakness, with or without it including his eyes. His face gives away far too much. It serves as a distraction, but then, maybe that's his goal.

Taking another sip, his voice much quieter now, he says, "It appears I've been given some grave misinformation. Interesting development, but, no matter."

He set his empty cup delicately down on the tea tray, and I notice a smooth as cream Irish lilt to his voice that had been previously disguised by the offending chewing gum. "Please allow me to offer you a late lunch, to express my apologies. Then we can talk about why I'm here in a more relaxed setting, hm?"

I peer at him from under my lashes, and he does, truly seem apologetic, but I still don't trust his eyes. "I appreciate that you've realized your error, but your invitation is presumptuous. Do you know how unbecoming it would be if word were to get out that I was dining in public with someone of such clearly high standing as yourself without him being a part of my already trusted and very high class clientèle?"

"So you're not even allowed to date then? What if I was a personal friend or suitor?"

My eyes flick to my computer screen, where there's a message from Kerri saying that Mr. Moriarty had an armed escort in the lobby, and she'd been afraid to try and alert me before now without raising alarm. Having an armed escort isn't unusual, if you're a person of interest, so I can't hold that against him, but it's still curious. I answer him, typing a message back to Kerri not to worry. "I'm not in the habit of keeping male "friends" and my personal dating habits are certainly none of your business."

He notices my digital correspondence, but says nothing indicative. "I see. Well then, down to business, as it were." I cross my legs and lean back in my chair, inviting him to continue. "I'm here to thank you for ridding us of a Mr. Thomas Banks. Good riddance, if you ask me." 

He smiles with teeth then, and the glee does reach his eyes, which are now quite lit up. He's pleased with himself. I however, am not. I drop all pretense. If he knows about Tommy, there's no telling what else he knows, and there's no point in being evasive about it "How did you know about that?"

He shrugs, straitening his tie. "I'm a consultant. My clientèle varies. What's important, is that its a benefit to myself and my client that he's gone. Friend of my enemy is my friend, if you will."

Consultant. That's awfully and purposefully vague. A high ball consultant with an armed escort and a client with interests in a now dead criminal. "I came not only to express my gratitude to his very capable dispatcher, but also to offer my future services, if the need ever arises. I'm a problem solver, you see, Ms. Azalea, and seeing as you are a very important businesswoman, I would like you to be aware that I'm available to you, should you ever have "problems" again in the future."

Removing a business card from his suit, he hands it to me. I take it but don't bother to look, as he continues speaking. "You see, like yourself, I don't usually make house calls, but this situation in particular did warrant one." The seriousness is gone now, replaced with the nonchalance I've become accustomed to. "Now, I'll take my leave. Do consider keeping in touch. It was lovely meeting you."

He takes my hand and kisses it once more, and when his eyes meet mine there's that look again. Predatory and feline in its way. "Until next time."

After he's gone, I sit unmoving for a while. There's a ping from my desktop that's probably another message from Kerri, but I ignore it. So he knows about Banks, but stopped by to thank me and offer to solve my "problems" should they arise? Who exactly is this man, and who did he "consult" that would have any interest in a petty human trafficking ring? There's definitely more going on behind the neatly, well manicured surface of the enigmatic Mr. Moriarty, and I'm still not entirely sure I shouldn't be afraid that he doesn't have more sinister interests aside from expressing gratitude for me shooting a man in the head. I know killing him was risky business, as is trying to help the helpless girls he accosted, but just how much trouble have I gotten myself into?

My desk telephone rings, and I grab the receiver aggressively, which I almost never do. "What is it, Kerri?"

"I'm so sorry, Ma'am, I tried to message you, but you hadn't responded, so I just called to tell you that your fees have been paid."

I pause, confused. "My what? What are you talking about?"

"M-Mr. Moriarty paid your entertainment fee in full for the meeting."

You have got to be kidding me. "He what?!"

"Yes ma'am, I know, and I know it was just a business call, but he insisted."

I hang up the phone without answering her, and immediately ring Rob. I have no idea the exact cost of my appearances anymore, my finance guys handle the numbers, but I know it is not in any way a sum of money that you just throw around for a half hour meeting. "Yes Ma'am."

"Robert, I'm going to need you to post someone at my house tonight."

"Does this have something to do with the little meet and greet today?"

"Yeah, actually, it does. The man who came knew about Tommy."

Rob curses under his breath on the other end of the line. At least we're on the same page. "I'll be there tonight."

"Rob, you don't have to do that. This is grunt work, and your time is more valuable to me than that."

"Listen, if this guy knows about Tommy, then he's trouble. Did he threaten you?"

I think back to his eyes, dark and ambiguous. Had he been trying to threaten me? "No, nothing like that."

As much as I hate to have Robert handle work that is, in my opinion, beneath him, I'm glad that it was going to be him there with me. I need someone I can trust. "Lace, did he threaten you?" 

I exhale softly at the shortened version of my first name. He's one of the few who was granted permission to use it, and doesn't do so very often. "No. He didn't threaten me. I'll tell you more when I get home. I'm going to finish up here and then head that way." 

"See you then, Boss."

I hang up the phone and glance at the business card I didn't realize I was still holding in my other hand. It's clinical in its simplicity. The initials J.M. are printed in block font on the front, and there's a number printed on back, with another scrawled under it, preceded by the word "personal". I tuck the card into my desk and grab my things. I need to get home and have no intention of dialing either of those numbers in the foreseeable future.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Money is the anthem of success, so put on mascara, and your party dress._

When I arrive Robert is waiting for me; I let him in, asking if he'd like any coffee or tea. He looms in the doorway, all 6'6" of bulk wrapped in a black blazer And matching slacks. "Coffee, please."

I relieve him of his coat and hang it in the closet neatly before heading to the kitchen to put a pot on. His shoulder holster is a stark reminder of danger against the soft gray button up he has on, but it makes me feel better. When I re-enter the kitchen, I'm dressed in sleeping shorts and a tank top, with a silk black robe hanging slack and untied, hair in a messy bun. Rob has already made his own coffee and poured me a glass of wine to boot and I chide him, even though I'm glad he did. "You're a guest. I pour the drinks."

"We're friends, Lacie, you don't have to play hostess with me."

The tension goes out of my shoulders and I slouch into a chair across from him at my small dining table. "I know, Rob. I'm sorry. Still haven't slipped out of my work suit, just yet, I guess."

Robert and I are actually very good friends. We've known each other since we were both kids. Our families had moved in the same social circles. We went our separate ways for many years, but when I started The Azalea Group, I had given him a call to see if he wanted a job. Now he's my right hand, body guard, enforcer, or whatever you want to call it. The pretense of my social and business persona could be exhausting, and he's the only person I'm close enough to in my life to let the doors to my real self open up. Lacie and Ms. Azalea are two quite different, and yet coinciding women within me. "So tell me about this creep."

"He wasn't really a creep...just kind of..." 

I take a sip of my wine and try to think of a way to describe Moriarty to him. As I re-tell the afternoon visit's events, and the reasons he gave for coming to see me, I find myself thinking back to him standing in my office. I was so agitated then that I could barely think strait, but now I have cause to reflect and pick him apart. I remember his tight but well fitted suit, tapered around his slim waist and thin, bird-like shoulders. His hands, curled around my China, were slender and well manicured, but had a sense of strength to them. Not the kind of strength that came from continued hard labor, but the hidden, imposing kind crawling just beneath the surface of his knuckles.

Rob is saying something now, but I'm having trouble focusing on him just then. I find myself lost in my head, back in my office with that strange man with the dark eyes that gave way to naught, that is, save for when he met my own as he kissed my hand in greeting and parting. He had looked at me like he was playing a game of life or death sudoku; reaching through my eyes to see how hard of a game it was going to be, the game of my mind. "Lace?"

I look up and realize both of our glasses are empty, and blush when I see that Rob has noticed I hadn't been present with him in the conversation. Shaking my head, I rub my face and get up to clear away the dishes, but his large and able fingers on my arm stop me. "I'm sorry, its just...I'm a bit rattled is all. I should go to bed."

Leaning forward, Rob brushes a stray hair out of my face and kisses my forehead before beating me to the dishes and placing them carefully in the sink. The tenderness of his actions are starting to worry me, but I find them no less endearing for it. I really am glad he's hear with me. He's the only man I ever truly feel safe with. "I'll be outside. Call me if you need anything."

I nod and head toward my bedroom but hear him call behind me, "I mean it, Boss."

When I finally do sleep, I dream of being back in Japan, training alongside Geisha surreptitiously; never as a peer, because the flower and willow world wasn't one for outsiders, even in these more modern years. I was lucky enough to be granted the limited access that I had been, but that's what you get when your wealthy and well connected parents ship you away for bad behavior. My great grandfather had actually been Danna to a prominent Geiko just before the war, I've only seen pictures of her, but she was breathtaking. I was enamored by a world that could produce such a beautiful and elegant woman, and buried myself in independent research on their secretive and forbidden society.

Tonight I don't dream of dancing or lessons or ceremony, I dream of walking down the darkened streets of the Hanamachi back to my dormitory, fear quickening my steps as I run away from a nameless face with dark eyes and a thirst for fire and destruction.

 

Its a few weeks later, and I'm preparing for one of my rare outings. R. McElhenney, one of my longstanding clients, is having a fundraising gala tonight and requested I be there. He requests no other girls by name, but I've chosen a few of my best to accompany me. Robert is away attending to some personal business, but left us in the care of Greta and Terry, another capable member of my security team.

I turn in my dressing room's full length mirror, draped in one of my favorite gowns. Its an off the shoulder, canary yellow floor length, with a titillating, but not too risque, slit up the side and a train of pale yellow lace. My hair is in a bun-like up do with curly tendrils left to grace my shoulders and back. Makeup is always minimalistic; heavy face work is for the younger, less experienced girls. Senior ladies in my group always wear little.

Deandra, Callie, Wilhelmina, and I arrive and get right to work, and work we do. While looking pretty and light flirting are staples of course, its also expected of us to hold engaging conversations with important patrons, all of which I have dossiers on. This keeps the gala lively and also finds the wealthy to loosen their pockets a little more in name of the fundraising cause. They're always quick to leave their distinguished public wives- if they've brought them, to their sewing circles and glasses of champagne to seek out younger and more desirable company; myself and my girls, always quick of wit and dressed to disarm.

When my eyes catch our gracious host, I glide over to him and air kiss each of his cheeks. The attractive and distinguished older dot com billionaire bows to kiss my hand, and I'm all demure giggles. "So glad you could make it tonight, Lacie. I see you remembered my favorite color."

Blushing and motioning to my gown, I murmur, "Oh, this old thing? I forgot I even had one like it." 

His peers watch our conversation at a distance with some envy, which means I am doing my job correctly. My presence is a status symbol. "I imagine so, with a wardrobe as extensive as yours must be. I saw a gown similar to it in Paris, do remind me to have it sent to you."

"Now Raymond, you know I'll do no such thing."

He laughs, eyes sparkling, and I'm glad he can enjoy himself in my company. "Just as you know I'll do it anyways."

We part ways, and I return to my duties of dancing and chatting with the other guests. The night wears on and the auctions have started. My three girls have gone off to a private room to enjoy a light meal. We never partake in food meant for honored guests, and never eat our meals in public. Not only is it crass to watch a vision of beauty smack away at hors d'oeuvres, we're here to work, not munch. I'm not very hungry, and find solace in the outdoors, one one of the vast stone balconies of the building. I haven't been out for very long when a glimmer of silver catches peripheral vision to my left, and I turn to see its a man's tuxedo jacket. I'm about to greet him when my breath catches in my chest and words fall short.

It's Moriarty. He's looking quite pleased with himself as the moon reflects silver in his dark hair that matches the flamboyant jacket. I'm speechless, and seeing that I've recognized him, he comes over to stand beside me, hands in his pockets again. "Well, you're being quite rude."

He's chewing gum again. He's so close to me our sides are almost flush; I can smell the peppermint on his breath, and I have to admit that though his choice of color scheme is quite garish for the event, he wears it well. "What are you doing here?" 

My voice is a low rumble, not altogether un-accusatory. He ignores me, staring off into the night as I was just before I noticed I wasn't alone out here. "Here I am, an honored guest at an event to which you've been employed, and you haven't even had the grace to greet me."

"I asked what you were doing here."

The gum rolls around in his mouth as he speaks, dark eyes sparkling in the moonlight just like his hair and attire. "And I've just told you. I'm a guest." He smiles, all teeth, all smug. 

"Spit out that fucking gum."

His mouth opens into a perfect _O_ , face alight with faux surprise. "Well I have never!" He says it in a perfect impersonation of an offended southern belle, and even I'm upset at the slip. I'm just so taken aback at him being here, Ms. Azalea's mask slipped lopsided for a moment. He relents his gum in any case, spitting it haphazardly off the side of the railing. My eyes jump, watching it fall into the trees below. I compose myself. _Breathe._

"My apologies for being untoward, Mr. Moriarty, but I had no idea Mr. McElhenney counted you as one of his _guests_."

"Ah, I see." 

He inches sideways and I step back, now he's between myself and the railing, and I'm feeling a little nervous as the surprise is wearing off. "I've worked with Mac before, and, in fact, am quite the beneficiary to his cute little _charity._ " He raises sarcastic quotation marks as he says the last word.

"What are you implying?"

He grins, but his eyes give nothing to me. The rest of his face is a blank canvas. "Oh I never imply anything, dear. Now, let's have some fun. How about a dance?"

I glance at his outstretched hand. "The auction's started. There's no music."

"Oh, come along. Don't tell me you've never danced without music."

"You're being absurd." 

I'm turning, about to leave. I've had enough of him. I want to get back inside so I can say my goodbyes, collect my girls, and get as far away from this man as possible. He catches my wrist, lightly, encircling it with his hand, and though its not threatening, he's applying enough pressure that I would have to struggle away if I wanted to do so. My eyes are wide now as I look at him, and I feel my breath quicken. His never leave mine and he's searching again, but for what? What could he possibly be trying to calculate? "If you don't dance with me, I will tell on you like a little girl."

I laugh in spite of myself, and relax for a moment. What is this man's deal? He pulls me and I lose my footing, but before I can crash into him he's holding me up into a dancing form. Hand in one hand, the other on my waist. I feel myself blush. His touch is feather light, but with presence. He didn't need to push hard to let me know his hands were on me. And then we were moving in slow circles, neither of us losing time or missing the beat in our head, and we have somehow found a synchronized rythm, even without music to guide us. Its impolite to stare, but as we glide around I'm lost in those icy black pools in his head, heavy lidded because I'm practically swimming in his heady cologne, and he's smiling, because he knows it. I'm caught off guard as he gives me a twirl, and my skirt feathers outward. When I'm back against him, he asks me why I chose to operate The Azalea Group in London. "Its an untapped market."

"Yes dear, but why here, when this is clearly not where you originated."

Oh. Obviously that's what he meant. What is it about him that makes it so hard for me to think clearly? "Its the only place that has a good need for the services we provide. In the major cities of the states its all clubs and escorts and fast paced. There's nothing elegant about Washington, either. This country's pomp and circumstance is somehow lost on all of them."

And I want to keep as much distance between myself and my parents as I can manage, which I suspect makes them just as happy as it does me. They are, after all, the ones that sent me away to Japan in disappointment. Too bad they've never been able to have another child to replace me, and fulfill whatever it is they want their poster progeny to become. I say nothing to this effect, but Moriarty seems to read it on my face like a flippant newsletter. "Ah. So there's some family issues as well, I gather. Why else choose to be so far from them?"

I don't realize we've stopped moving and are simply standing in place, him still holding onto me precariously. "That's none of your business."

I move away from him and he doesn't stop or try to hold on. The magic is gone and I'm nervous again. "Suit yourself, love. Either way, I've brought you something to apologize for my rudeness when we met."

Drawing a small ornate tin from his pocket, he hands it to me, and I notice a note attached to it. I remove the note and slip it in my bodice. Its rude to read letters in front of the sender, and altogether defeats the purpose. I open the tin, which is a beautiful oriental pattern with some mandarin scrawled on the lid. The fragrance is overwhelming, and I realize that its chrysanthemum tea, with bits of lavender and orange peel mixed it. It has to be a custom blend. Closing it, I thank him. "That was very thoughtful, though I'm not sure I should accept the apology."

The eyebrows quirk though he doesn't seem truly surprised. "Oh?"

"Don't insult my intelligence by trying to pass off that you being at this event is a coincidence. You knew I would be here, or you wouldn't have prepared a gift. I thought our business was settled. What is it that you want?"

His eyes light up and its a beautiful thing, drawing me to them with a power not many in this world had ever been able to subject me to. I realize its the first time he's ever seemed truly pleased in a way that is not innately smug. Hands back in his pockets, because he seems incapable of remaining in a relaxed standing position, he says, in a voice that matches the light on his face, "I like you. Is that so unbelievable?"

"Yes, actually." I catch myself laughing a little at his implied simplicity. "And besides, I've already told you that I don't date. Its bad for business."

Even though not in the affirmative, he still seems pleased with my reply, and I can't imagine what the hell his angle is. What is he doing, and more importantly, what am I doing? Why didn't I just take the gift, accept his apology, and leave? "I know, dear. And, quite frankly, I don't either." 

He shrugs then, and his features say it all, as usual. If this man were mute, I swear that his face would suffice in lieu of verbal communication; It's astounding. He's moving now, and plucks a few sprigs of heather from a planter nearby. Coming toward me, he stops just inches from touching, and places them all strategically in my hair, like nature's barrettes. I want to turn around and bolt; run as far away from this fantastical creature as I possibly can manage, but I'm rooted to the spot, as if his presence has hands and they're  holding me, pulling me down, down, where I know I shouldn't go. His hands barely dust my shoulders and he leans just close enough to my ear that his lips don't touch. "Until next time."

Then he's gone and I'm still frozen in his residual draw. My breath finally starts to slow down, and I think to reach into my bodice and unfold the note he'd given to me with the tea. The stationary is white with gold leaf, and almost so thin it makes me wonder how it had been possible to actually scribble on it. Written there, in the same script that graced the back of the business card he'd given me when I met him, it read,

_"Remember to drink a cup for me, Gray."_

All the color has drained from my face and hands. Gray. He wrote Gray. My given name was Lacidee Grayson. This isn't possible. I feel my chest rise and fall with panic. Lacidee Grayson doesn't exist in this country, as far as anyone is concerned. No one, not anyone, could possibly know my real name because I never gave it. Nor is it on any documents concerning myself or business.

The door opens behind me, and I don't turn around when I hear Greta calling for me, because I'm too busy wondering who that fucking Moriarty man is, and just how much shit I've gotten myself into. I am in way, way out of my depth, and I don't feel that way often. Greta calls to me again, and when I turn around I'm all business, all smiles, and my voice never falters. However, on the inside I am screaming at myself that I have fucked up big time, and wondering what in the world I'm going to do about this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He loves to romance 'em, reckless abandon, holdin' me for ransom, upper echelon_

"You've become a disgrace, Dee. You have been given everything,  _everything_ , and you've chosen to waste it with your good for nothing cousin in that piteous excuse for an apartment."

I rolled my eyes at my mother, who was nursing probably her fifth or sixth gin and tonic, slouched on the sofa in one of the various sitting rooms their stupid mini mansion contained. The gum in my mouth had lost its flavor, and I wanted to spit it in her fucking glass and leave.

"You were accepted to numerous reputable schools, and yet you failed to enroll in a single one. Now you're-"

I stop her. "I wasn't _accepted_ anywhere, Regina, you and Dad are lining the pockets of every one of those fucking headmasters."

"Lacidee, I will not tolerate that language under my roof."

I sighed, exasperated. I wanted nothing to do with their fucking ivy-league wet dreams. It was all politics and bullshit, and every one of them knew that. I was just the only one who seemed willing to call them out.

"You're 22 years old, Dee, and at first, your father and I were willing to entertain your faux rebellious streak, with your improper skirts, your eyeliner, your filthy mouth."

She had a disgusted look on her face as she said the words and I stared, unblinking at her, with her gravitationally impossible coiffure. She appeared as if she had a rusty brown, cotton candy beehive stapled to her head, and I would be damned if I turned out looking like she did at her age. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?!"

Her glass was empty then, the sad, watered down ice cubes making piteous tinkling noises, like begging to be doused in more alcohol. "No, Mother Dearest, I don't have anything to _fucking_ say for my _fucking_ self."

I got up, pulling my hoodie tight around the purple, Fredrick's of Hot Topic corset I had miraculously stuffed myself in to, and teeter a bit when one of the spike heels of my patent leather shoes caught in an imperfection on the oriental throw rug. Regina Grayson was fuming, practically foaming at the mouth, and for once had nothing to say, so I took her place and continued speaking. "Mom, I didn't enroll in any of those schools because I find the schooling systems in this country to be fundamentally broken and completely irrelevant, in spite of themselves."

Her eyes fell to the high cut leather shorts painted on my ass and thighs as I strutted to her desk, planting two palms flat on the polished, cherry wood surface. She had decided to share this particular sitting room with her "office," where she played pretend like she actually did a goddamned thing with her life, or heaven forbid, worked for a living. It was a ruse that put children's games of House and Doctor to shame; her mud pies were the ugly beaded bracelets she sold to other too-rich bored housewives like herself, her scalpel and stethoscope were her pristinely manicured talons that ended in dull points, and her daily carouselling neck accouterments that were gaudy in the way that they looked too rich to be true, like costume jewelry did, except they weren't fake. "The reason I moved in with Ashley, is because she's the only other person in this ass-backwards family with half of a brain, and I cannot stand to see yours and Dad's fucking fake ass faces anymore."

"Lacidee Grayson, I-"

With a broad stroke of my arm, the bric-a-brac from her desktop was in shambles, making clinks and knocks as they desperately fled my wrath onto the hardwood floor. My mother gasped, and for the first time, as far as I was aware, anyway, she looked legitimately frightened of me. Frightened, of her sorry failed science experiment of a daughter. "There is nothing, not one thing, that you can say to me that will make me hate you any less, and there aren't even words that exist in any language to rewrite the past you subjected me to."

Looking at her watered down green eyes, a part of me still felt sorry for her. A part of me wished I had turned out to be the way she wanted, that I could have ignored all of the hurtful things that had happened to me that she hadn't done anything about, that I had been strong enough to endure it all and grow into a normally functioning debutante like my peers; but not sorry enough to take any of this back. Not sorry enough to try and make her see that she was the one that was wrong, not me, and the fact that she would continue to rationalize her and my father's actions hurt worse than any one of his belts or her slaps on the mouth. "Stay out of my life. Don't ever call me again, don't even fucking think about me, and for damn sure don't get one of the Sheriffs in your pocket to pull me over and bring me here like you did today. I'm done with you, and with Dad, and this "piteous excuse" for a McMansion."

I picked up her empty glass, with the watery ghosts of her ice cubes, and dumped it in her lap before stomping out the back door and out of that house for what I thought then was going to be the last time.

Unfortunately, it wasn't.

 

"What's that card you keep staring at?"

Camille turns to me wearing a pair of huge purple tinted sunglasses. She's one of my girls who has done particularly well this quarter, so I was treating her to a spa day, and invited her back to my flat to relax. We're sunning ourselves aside the private pool on the roof of my building. I hadn't even realized I was looking at the business card. Its edges had softened and the corners were done in, because I now carried it everywhere with me. "Its nothing."

It's good that my own blue, Betsey Johnson pinup style glasses are hiding my eyes; unlike the man who produced the card I'm focusing on, unless I'm actively putting energy into a poker face, my gaze gives away far too much, regardless of what my mouth says. It always has, and it's just one of those things some people have to live with, only so much fine tuning you can do. She shrugs and takes a sip of her mimosa, laying back down on the lounge chair she's nestled in.

I still haven't decided what my next move will be, and haven't told anyone what happened at the Gala. I have no one to tell, I realize with a slight pang of rarely occurring loneliness. My profession requirres quite a bit of isolation and from what one would consider a normal life. Usually that doesn't bother me, quite the opposite, in fact. I like it that way, keeping the world at arm's length is something I've had time to perfect and polish with my training in Japan, but every now and then I miss the camaraderie of having close girlfriends to gossip to. The key to this is to keep the separation necessary, as opposed to voluntary. Being an antisocial hermit issn't something to envy; being a person whose company is coveted and therefore limited, is so.

I'm close to some of my girls, and of course we giggle and gossip about certain patrons, most times over the small meals we share behind closed doors at parties, but there is always that separation of employer to employee. I pay for the luxurious lives their checks grant them, and therefore, they will forever walk on eggshells in my presence. It's healthy for them, a necessary and important skill to hone, but sometimes not so much so for myself.

I have no one close to Lacie that I can actually converse with on a personal level, save Robert, and I have already made an executive decision not to disclose to him what happened. Not only because he will most certainly overreact, but I want to have a plan in place before I tell him anything. What am I waiting for? Why don't I just call Moriarty and confront him, ask him how on earth he has the access to find out my real name, and why is he toying with me instead of just coming clean with his intentions? Just how far does his web of influence extend, and how am I to navigate it without becoming ensnared in a way not even I can easily slide out of?

Tucking the card away on the table beside my lounging chair, I turn over on my stomach and begin to nod off, stress and baking rays of the sun making me tired and grumpy. As I slip into a quasi-conscious state, my mind flutters to the tiny purple flowers he had placed in my hair, hands ghosting my shoulders with his inexplicably imposing touch, and my stomach does warm flip-flops. No matter how hard I try, I haven't been able to rid my myself of the memory highlighting his dark eyes flush with moonlight, or the never-still eyebrows that preceded them. "You should put some more sunscreen on Ms. Azalea, you're looking pretty flushed."

 

I'm back in pajamas and robe in front of my personal home desktop, with Rob sitting silently to my right, flipping through an automotive magazine. He comes over weekly and we discuss my side business of helping the girls from the streets, any problems he had run into, and delegating team members to solving them. He also gives me updates on how they're all getting on. Today he's relayed the troubling news that two of them have gone missing, leaving notes to the effect that they aren't suited for normal life outside of the dingy ones they've become accustomed to, and though I'm not altogether sure it isn't a ruse constructed by the trafficking group and they've been kidnapped back into service, I actually have some doubt that this is the case.

Part of why these groups don't have as high of a turnover rate as you would imagine is because although they are abusive to these women, their captors create a false sense of security that lulls them into staying; getting them addicted to drugs, forcing the girls to commit crimes other than obvious solicitation, and then threatening that they could never return to normal life, because they couldn't live without the drugs, or would surely become addicted to crime and be apprehended and imprisoned by authorities if they ever left. At least if they're within that world, they are protected from harm from the police, and also from anyone else. The girls are considered valuable income generating property, after all, and they're investments to be protected. These reasons made the transition to a regular day to day existence daunting and stressful for them, as they will now have to work regular jobs to support themselves after being used to a relatively unstructured existence, where the only effort they'd had to put forth was selling themselves to strangers, or packing arms, or cutting up and packaging drugs. As disappointed as I am in the girls that go back of their own volition, I can't place all of the blame on them.

I decide to have Rob organize some people to fact checking, making sure the girls really have gone back of their own free will. Checking the apartments, calling employers and landlords, just finding evidence to support the decision. Nothing more I can really do, but if they come back with alarming results, I may or may not have another problem on my hands. I really don't know if I have the energy to take care of it anymore, either. As rewarding as what I do for them is, more recently I have mused to myself whether or not it was really going to be worth it for much longer. I've already gotten myself into enough shaky water as it is.

"Lacie, what are you doing?"

I hadn't realize he's been watching me for some time. Tentatively, I had typed the words "James Moriarty, Consultant" into my default search engine to see what would come up. "Just a little research."

He leans forward, and I can feel his breath feather light against the side of my face. It would have been hard for someone not of such ridiculous height, because of the distance between my chair and his. Scanning the screen, he said, "I thought we were done with this guy."

My eyes flick to the top few results, and I have to admit they give away very little. "I am. We are, I'm just curious."

He sighs, and it blows a tendril of my messy hair forward. Turning my gaze, I look back at him. "What's there to be curious about, Lace? If he hasn't bothered you again, its probably safe to assume he's not a real threat. There haven't been any security breaches or strange activity."

For half a second I consider telling him about the note, but again decide against it. I want to know more before I decide worrying him isn't going to be needless. "Don't worry about what I do with my spare time, then."

I know its cold, but I also know he won't budge. He's as stubborn as a fucking Ox. "I'm not saying we're in the clear on the Banks thing, Lacie, but I am saying that there's no point in you worrying yourself about that pompous ass. Its my job to handle your security, and I've got it under control."

 _Pompous ass, huh?_   I wonder if I detect a hint of jealousy in his tone, but quickly dismiss it. Even if he is jealous, we don't go there. We've been friends for far too long, and been through way too much. Our baggage is similar, but in the way that destroys romance, not helps it grow, and the fact that we both know so much about the others' life is an obstacle, counterintuitive as that sounds. Its something only people who share that relationship with someone can really understand. Though jealousy would certainly explain his exaggerated over protection of me lately.

He rarely leaves my side of late, during business hours at least, and has taken to hanging around the office far more than usual. He's quiet now, standing behind me with his hands on his hips. "Look, would it make you feel better if I tried to get some information on him? I have a guy."

I don't know about that. The waters are still too shaky, and I don't want to seem desperate or arouse the wrong kind of suspicion. Rubbing my eyes, I tell him to keep it as an option but not worry about it now. I know its not what he wants to hear, but he relents and takes his leave shortly afterward.

Turning back to my computer, I click the first search result. The article has him on a list of investors in a new program for up and coming artists in the area. Nothing of substance, and the next few results are much of the same. He has quite a bit of money in the arts, including some Opera and Ballet related ventures.The fifth result piques my interest, and confirms his involvement with McElhenney's charity, which is a program to help the homeless in various ways. There are no specific details, except for the fact that he's credited for saving the program during a rough patch. No specific articles, no interviews of him or even mentioning him, no one is quoted giving his name, and there are no pictures, or any kind of websites advertising his services. His name remains on the fringe of everything, never as a centerpiece. That in itself isn't odd, what is, is that he himself is obviously more successful and wealthy than I'd initially thought, and, as my search confirmed, well connected. None of this explains how he was  able to obtain my name. I've never told him exactly where I'm from, never even given him my first name; the only thing I gave away was that I'm from the states. That is far too vague for him to have been able to pin point anything. Private investigator, maybe? But it all still begs the question as to why. What does he want?

My head starts to hurt, causing me to abandon my fruitless search and get to bed. It's busy season now; I'm booked for an event in three days time, and it's of a much grander scale than the Gala had been. An awards ceremony for a local hero, and the Mayor had requested myself and a large handful of other girls to make sure the guest of honor was made to feel all the more important. Some of the lower tier girls were hired to run some strictly for fun gambling games at the reception, and I've had to send off for a few playboy bunny-esqe uniforms. Hot pants and glittery vests, and all that.

I'm still feeling wound up, so I take a pill prescribed to me to help me sleep. It's a godsend, because I have a restless mind that often keeps me up for hours in spite of myself when trying to get to bed. The only side effect is that it often gives me vivid dreams or nightmares, on occasion.

 

"Come on, it will be fun! Besides, I know you hate your stupid job at that shit hole bar."

My cousin Ashley was right, of course. I hated my current job, and the manager was a grubby little man who overworked the female servers, and often encouraged patrons to cop a feel. I'd heard rumors that he blackmailed some into sexual favors for fear of losing their job, citing false transgressions that would warrant their termination. I had, more than once, resisted the urge to walk out and burn it all to the ground with him inside. This however, didn't quite convince me that dancing at a titty bar would be a good idea, even if the girls did make oodles of money. I wasn't trying to be _that_   stereotypically rebellious. "What if someone we know sees us? You know my mom would have a fucking coronary, and the old cunt would probably get me arrested somehow, to boot."

My cousin scoffed, tying a tourniquet around her arm mid-sentence. Her always perfect nutella hair fell over her eyes as she concentrated on the task. I'd always been so jealous of how little effort it took for her to maintain that beautiful hair. I'd managed to inherit my fathers unruly locks, and it grew as slow as the summer days were long. "Please, no one who knows us that would care is going to come anywhere near a strip club."

I stared at her as she prepared a needle to shoot up with. I hated that she did heroine, but it wasn't my place to tell her what to do with her body, and trying to do so would have only served to drive a wedge between us. Besides, she wouldn't have listened to me anyways, and I knew that despite the fact that it was an awful drug with horrible consequences, it made her feel better. I had never been one to hold self medication against those who needed it, and anyone who says they've never done it with something at some point is a flat out liar. I thought for a moment, taking a long drag of my cigarette in hand. What's the worst that could happen? "You know what? Fuck it."

We both laughed at the preposterousness of what we were about to get ourselves into until our sides burned. Our grandparents would be very angry and appalled ghosts if they ever decided to check up on us. I said as much, and Ash laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her seat, but that may have also been the high now flowing through her veins. We walked into one of the less shady establishments the next day, no daytime buffet strip club disgusting bullshit for us, strictly clean dancing, and were hired on the spot.

 

I wake with a snap in the middle of the night and my heart is racing. Glancing around the darkened room, I look for the cause of disturbance. I'm saddled with the curse of growing into light sleeping as an adult, and while I'm aware its a useful trait, I sometimes long for my teens and early twenties, when I possessed the ability to sleep through damn near anything. I'm groggy, but I think I can see the door to my room twitch. Just slightly, no noise. My vision is blurry and my steps fall heavy on the floor, but I pad to the door an open it to an empty hallway. Something soft and dry brushes against my leg and I scream, jumping back. My cat, Moshi is looking up at me, and he perplexedly mews, probably judging me. Breath leaving my lungs with fervor, I stare down at the unabashed little ball of fur at my feet. He's not little at all, and actually quite overweight. "Moosh, you scared the shit out of me."

Moshi keeps mostly to himself, and aside from when the mood strikes him and he crawls into bed with me, or in my lap at my computer, I rarely see him. We coexist with a silent camaraderie, and that's enough for both of us.

There's a tinkling sound coming from down the hall, and Moshi rushes toward it, disappearing into the darkness. I flip on a light in the hallway and continue after him, wondering if I was going to have to contact my landlord about mice again. Like roaches in the states, mice are pests that everyone simply knows are something they will never be rid of here, even in the nicest of homes, but the knowledge doesn't make them any less agitating.

_"Diet Mountain Dew, baby New York City. Never was there ever a girl so pretty..."_

It takes me a moment to realize my stereo is on. Goosebumps rise on my arms, and every rational reason for it to have been accidentally activated run through my head, fleeting. I'm rooted to the spot, petrified of turning the corner and entering the living room. It was probably Moosh. I'm overacting. I have to be. Stress, right? Yeah, sure. Willing my feet to move I rush forward, flipping the main lights on as fast as I can. Nothing is out of the ordinary, aside from the stereo still leeching noise into the otherwise quiet room. Breathing a sigh of relief and padding forward to turn it off, I see something off to my right, in the corner. There's a large square parcel on my shelves that does not belong there. My books are organized by subject, which some people find odd, but hey, they aren't their books. I own an extensive collection of literature on Geisha, and there, nestled between them is something disguised in fine tissue paper thin wrapping. I'm so scared now my eyes are wide, and I snatch it up, disheveling the tomes around it, tearing at the paper and throwing it at my feet.

Inside is a coffee table volume of which I'm not familiar, filled with pictures of Geisha performing the arts. A postcard is bookmarked on a page that displays a group of Maiko performing a colorful dance, probably a summertime exhibition, given their attire. I set the book down and realize that the card-stock isn't a postcard at all, but an advert.

The advertisement is for Beaucoup, and I blanch at the recognition of name and faces emblazoned in all of its photoshopped wonder, and its Ash and I, back atop the stage we used to dance on. Above the photo it says our stage names, and the names of a few other girls whose pictures are also cropped in beneath us. I've never seen the ad before, but know that Beaucoup is well known for having younger and more beautiful girls than any other club in the area, and showcases them well in appropriately placed adverts. All young candy girls, no rotting teeth and c-section scars there. That's part of why Ash and I chose the place. Being a good, pretty stripper at a high class establishment took the edge off of the fact that we were still taking our clothes off for money at the end of the day. I turn the card over and realize my hands are clammy now. Scrawled in red ink stark against the blank, white flip-side, it read,

 _"Wish I could have seen you dance._ _-JM"_

Angrily, I rip the stupid thing to shreds and throw it in a waste bin. I can't catch my breath, because this is bad, so bad. He knows. He knows everything, and he can ruin me with a well placed call to a newspaper or magazine. He knows my name, he knows where I'm from, he knows what I've done, where I live, and somehow, the fucker got in to my apartment, or sent someone here to leave the very thinly veiled threat. I have to do something. The clock is ticking now, and the ball is in my court. I can't call Rob, its too late for that and besides, I got myself into this mess and I am for damn sure going to get myself out of it. I'm not scared anymore, just furious, and maybe that's just adrenaline, but maybe not. Fuming, I run to my room and grab my cell, yanking the drawer to my nightstand open and withdrawing the weathered business card. Shaking, still unsure if this was the right course of action, I punch in the digits and hit dial.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He says to be cool but I don't know how yet, wind in my hair, hands on the back of my neck_

I don't even hear the purring rings that go by, and it feels like ages but I know its only been seconds. The tones stop, but there's silence on the other end. Finally, I say, "Hello?!"

There's a crackling whir through my speaker that I realize is an intake of breath. "Well, well, well. Someone's in a tizzy."

I can practically see the huge wad of chewing gum making his voice roll around it. "What is it with you and gum?!" My nostrils are flaring in anger, and I'm glad we're not speaking face-to-face. Flaring nostrils are never attractive.

"I think the more pressing question is what is it with  _you_ and gum?" It is taking so much effort not to lose what cool I have left, and admittedly, there isn't much to be gone anyhow. Counting backward internally, I fall into an overstuffed chair in the corner of the room. Its easier to remain calm in a comfy chair, I find. "I should have you arrested. Scratch that, I should have you beaten within an inch of your life."

He tsks slowly and says, "You should know I really detest being threatened, kitten, unless of course, its you who'll be doing the beating." My heart skips painfully in my chest. I have no idea why I'd thought to say those words, they just kind of fell out. I wish I could take them back, because he is definitely on higher ground in our little parlay. I can't let him know that's how I feel, of course, so I remain on the defensive, if a little more blase. "That makes two of us, and you stepped out of bounds first. What makes you think you have the right to break into my home?"

"What are you wearing?" _What the fuck is wrong with this guy?!_ Maybe subconsciously, maybe not, I glance down at my skimpy pj's and curl in on myself, uncharacteristically self-aware in my own bedroom. "Excuse me?"

"You're right, that was unnecessary of me." There's a pause, and I'm about to speak, thank him for realizing his error, when he continues, "I already know what you're wearing."

Silence now, and I can feel his Glasgow Grin like its a presence in the room with me, and can't help the sharp intake of breath as I try not to throw up. Nausea overtakes me and I'm dizzy, don't know what to say, because I'm so scared. Time and time again I underestimate this man, and time again he proves to me that the action is gravely erroneous. I realize that he expects that; he expects me to fail to take him seriously, because then he can bask in the satisfaction my errors grant him. He's a snake. "Please leave me alone." High pitched as my voice is, I still manage to somehow not sound entirely pitiful, and I'm grateful for that.

"You called me, Darlin'."

" _Please._ " I'm begging now, any semblance of grace gone from my voice. I just want this to be over, want him to disappear from my life, with his eyes and his charm and his games. He verbally ignores my pleas, but I can just detect a change in his voice. It's down an octave or two, heavier, no more sing-song laced with bullshit.

"You really shouldn't say that word around me, kitten." It's a fleeting flip, and now he's back. I still don't know what to say. I'm at a loss, so confused, so befuddled, so scared and embarrassed. I'm in such a state that if there were a predecessor, I can't remember it. "Did you like my gift? I found it quite fitting."

Heaving a defeated sigh, I pinch the bridge of my nose and try not to cry. What am I going to do? "I really do wish I'd been 'round to see you perform."

Screaming, I throw the phone full force across the room, and it cracks open, spilling its plastic guts onto my carpet. I'm so frustrated I can't think, and I've broken my phone so I can't call Rob to come calm me.

I'm on the verge of a panic attack like I haven't been in years, and I only just stop myself from hyperventalating myself to tears. It has been a long time since anyone has ever had me so rattled, let alone a man I've only met twice. Shaking, I go to my phone, gathering the shards and attempting to get them back to at the very least functioning. The screen is cracked but I manage to phone Rob and he agrees to come over, even though I'd all but shooed him out a few hours ago.

When he strides through my foyer I fall into his arms in a pitiful heap. I haven't even bothered to remember my robe. I told myself I was going to keep my composure, but who am I kidding? I lack the energy and conviction to do so. He asks me again and again what has me so shaken, but foolishly I don't answer, just lead him to my room and draw him down onto the bed with me. Its not fair, its not proper, and I don't care. I need his silent support. I need to know there is still a place I can't be touched, a place not even the clout of James Moriarty can breach. My breathing has slowed, and I plead with my mind to stop racing so I can sleep. My rational self knows I have to be sharp for work, but the other part longs for unconsciousness because then I'd be free of this fear of falling in too deep. I've almost slipped away with Rob's arms curled around me, when he whispers, "Lace, is it Ash?"

A tear burns behind my lids, and I curse him for withdrawing that curling pain from the back of my mind, on top of everything else. For simplicity's sake, I just nod, because I know that will shut him up like nothing else can. I'm grateful he doesn't attempt another question, and finally relax when I feel him fall asleep behind me. I know I should tell him like I know I shouldn't have asked him over. Bless him for putting up with my nonsensical bullshit.

I'm thankful that Rob doesn't stay the night, or rather, the morning, and all I've left of him is the ghost of an indention his body has left on the wrong side of the bed. I know I'll be paying for his presence later, even through the unspoken denial I have of his less than platonic feelings for me, but I brush all of this away, to be worried about later, and down an alka-steltzer lidden tumbler chased by three of my sleeping pills as I call Kerri, tell her I'm not feeling well, and experience her lack of surprise and realize that Rob probably already debriefed her like a good little boy.

When I finally do sleep, its not easy, it's a hard fought battle and my body tells me so. At this point, with everything weighing heavy on my mind and my carefully constructed walls coming crumbling down like a fucking tower of giant, high stakes Jenga, I still, in spite of my hard won composure, can't get that despicable man's words out of my head.

_I wish I could have seen you dance._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Boy, you have landed, babe, in the land of sweetness and danger, Queen of Saigon_

The event I've been hired by the Mayor to attend is very grand indeed. I almost wish I could break my own rule and flag down one of the waiters toting tiny Cucumber, Avocado, and Tomato finger sandwiches, because they look delicious. Oh well. Instead I'm nursing a flute of Pink Champagne, which is acceptable. One glass of light alcohol, and no more for the younger girls. Two for the more experienced women. The ladies assigned to the game and gambling tables are not allowed to partake in any alcohol, as their work demands complete sobriety. My dress is just as grand as the event itself, with a red bodice and bustle, underneath which blooms layered black tulle. I myself love tulle, but find it lacking a certain refinement for most of the parties to which I'm assigned. This evening, however, the Mayor insisted us ladies be dressed as princesses on the way to a ball, so we were all donning much of the same style skirts. My freshly done nails and toes were of a matching red, rounded nicely and cut just above my fingertips. I find completely square-cut nails quite garish, especially when they're left too long. One sees quite a bit of these types of manicures among well to do young ladies and older women these days, and it makes my skin crawl every time I notice them. Nobody wants to hear you click clack against your touch screen phone, or have to hold your hands at awkward angles to be able to use them to grasp anything.

Having already had my time dancing and chatting with both the Mayor and the Guest of Honor, who is now quite absorbed in my associate Helena's attentions, I perched near a window, watching everyone else's enjoyment take flight. Admittedly, I'm a bit on edge, hence the champagne, which is doing little to calm me, and again I wonder if anyone will notice if I infringe my own policies and snag a third glass. My eyes continuously scan the sea of faces, dresses, jackets, looking for something, anything indicative of a certain someone I can't chase out of my head. My mind goes back to that night in my condo, his voice purring through my receiver, egging me on, making me feel hot and cold and threatened exposed. I haven't spoken to Robert since, outside of necessary business conversation, and he's graciously done no pressing himself, but I still feel like an asshole.

I acquired a new phone, and the silver lining of busting my previous one to bits in a rare fit of anger, is that I find this newer model much easier to operate, and quite a bit faster. Unlike the upwardly trending huge, pop-tart and plus sized devices everyone around me seems desperate to acquire, I chose a smaller specimen, much to the befuddlement of the saleswoman, who continued to try and convince me that the larger ones were much more functional and fashionable. I'd told her that I wanted a phone, not a cumbersome miniature laptop, and she'd thankfully abandoned her efforts.

Finishing my champagne, I search for someone to relieve me of the empty glass so I can surreptitiously garner a fresh one, because fuck it, I need another drink.

 _Wait._ Talking to a political candidate across the room, I just catch a glimpse of shimmering, slicked back hair, pale skin, narrowly cut jacket, gorgeous Italian leather shoes, and I'm sure its him. My heart seems to flutter both faster and slower at the same time and a well placed spinning couple on the dance floor limits my view. He's gone. I'm looking all around the room now, trying not to appear as frantic as a feel. Nearly bumping into a waiter carrying a polished silver tray, I deposit my now empty glass upon it before demurring an apology in his direction and continuing my trajectory.

Finally, I've spotted him again, talking to Camille on the fringe of a larger group of patrons. _Oh no. No, no, no._  I can't imagine what I must look like, almost jogging toward my target on open-toed red spike heels. With my heart in my throat, I'm just behind him now, and Camille's face lights up when she sees me. I smile, and it must look as tight and forced as it feels, because she blanches a bit as the man turns to face me. He smiles, and it reaches his eyes, which are warm and alight with drink and energy, and it is not James Moriarty. It's not him at all. He's narrow and dark haired, but not predatory or calculating in the slightest. In fact, I can almost see how ordinary he is written on his face, still stretched ear-to-ear with that goofy smile. Letting out the breath I had no idea I'd been holding, I smile at the pair, and its real now. I'm just about to introduce myself, when my eyes catch the man's lapel. Pinned there was a sprig of heather, purple florettes almost strategically brightening the green stem like Christmas lights.

My face must reflect my distress, because Camille asks me if I'm quite alright. Nodding, I don't bother to try and regain my composure. "Yes, dear, I'm just fine. I was on my way to the Ladies', I'm feeling a bit flushed."

Begging the guest his pardon, I move onward, and again nearly crash into an unsuspecting older woman on her way out of the restroom. Securing the door behind me, I turn the faucet on and begin splashing the glorious cold water all over my face. My reflection gazes back at me and her pupils are being swallowed by watery green iris, cheeks the color of a new born bunny's nose. _I have got to pull myself together._ Air is heaving in an out of me with force, and I again have to stop myself from hyperventilating. The flower is a coincidence. It has to be. I'm being ridiculous.

Am I? Can it really be a coincidence that a guest appearing almost exactly like Moriarty was chatting up Camille, which he would be aware that I would find alarming, also had a sprig of heather attached to his lapel? No, me thinking it was a matter of chance is what's ridiculous. He's still toying with me, dangling a threat in front of me like someone using a mouse on a string to coerce a pet cat into chasing it.

There's a faint buzzing, and I realize it must be my phone. I don't usually bring it with me to events, but tonight I wanted to know I had it if I encountered trouble. Well, I'd encountered it all right, but not the kind I can call someone to protect me from. Anyway, who was possibly be texting me? Everyone knows I'm on a job, and not to bother interrupt me unless it's an emergency, or I have contacted them first. I pull the object out of my wristlet and its no longer abuzz, but the green message light is flashing in time with my heartbeat. I unlock the screen and there's a text from a number I don't recognize.

_Looking for someone?_

Goddammit. That insufferable little shit. My theories confirmed, I feverishly type back a response, because I know this is all just an irritating game, and I'm not taking his well placed bait this time.

_Meet me in the the rose garden in five minutes, and don't pretend you're not here._

Jamming the phone back in place, I dab my face with a linen kerchief, and tuck it away to freshen my makeup.

Mind reeling in circles around all the things I want to say to him; _Fuck you_ , _Leave me alone_ , _Stay away from me_ , _I will kill you myself you smug little bastard_ , I reach my destination and all these would-be words melt away because he really is there. The suit is black with red pinstripes this time, and for a man the world knows so little about, he sure does dress himself to be noticed. Or maybe it's just for my benefit, to distract me and force my notice. Turning toward me, face bright and smile glistening with teeth, he extends a hand. I stare at it, finding purpose in the clicks of my heels as I close the distance between us both. As disarming as his charm is, and as terrifyingly handsome and somehow frightening I find the look in his eyes, I ignore it and instead extend my own across his face and it lands with force and fervor across his cheekbone and mouth.

There's that perfect _O_ his lips can somehow magically form, with eyebrows elevated to match, and for a split second he looks almost... _excited_. My chest is heaving as I regard him, and then, the other shoe has dropped. I can't see his face now, because his hands have encircled my wrists with bruising force, and I cringe because I'm stumbling backwards now, until my shoulder blades smack painfully against the outer wall of the venue. Despite his aggression, his body remains calm, no elevated heartbeat, no struggle for breath; I know this, because he's pressing me flush against the wall with himself, and I think his legs must look silly being swallowed in yards and yards of black tulle. Shock is funny, in that way. He's cool to my flushing warmth, and I find it surprisingly welcome. Shaking, I dare to steal a look at his face now, and I'm so, so scared, because his eyes are closed, face tilted upward, like a child enjoying the pleasant smell of freshly baked goodies from his mother's kitchen. "Please, let me-"

A light, sweet, _Mmm_ sound emanates, vibrating out of his chest and I swallow hard as his Adam's Apple bobs accordingly. The pause gives me time to gather my thoughts, composure, composure, count backward from 100, and it all shatters as soon a I gather it, because now he's pressing me back harder, and I wish the wall would give way and swallow me whole when his nose and mouth find themselves nestled in the soft crook of my ear. "There's that word again."

I try to recoil but his all encompassing grasp prevents it, and I'm angry with myself for not trying harder. This dangerous, threatening man who could probably make me disappear by snapping his fingers has me physically overpowered, and I'm sickened because his lips against my skin has my mind reeling in a fevorous rush of warmth that spreads downward, down past my chest and threatening to go lower. He's moved now, no more purring words or drowning deep expression of force, but I remain frozen to the wall. Hands clasped behind his back, I damn his changability, because his posture and gaze give way to nothing indicative of our intimate exchange. Composure was my art, but he somehow took that from me, teaching the class. "We should have a discussion, I think, and this isn't the time or place."

Smoothing my hands down the front of my gown, I nod. "I suppose I agree."

He offers me his elbow, and I hesitate momentarily before snaking my arm through it, and he continues talking as we walk back into the building. Internally, I'm relieved because we're back in a crowd. A crowd with lots and lots of witnesses. "This little soiree is not much longer for the world. I'll give you time to check in with the chickadees and acquire more comfortable dress."

Helena glances our way from her conversation with a group of party guests and her face lights up when she sees me. She gives me a grin and a thumbs up as we walk past, and oh good lord, she's trying to congratulate me on my choice of attractive arm candy. If only she knew. I smile back, hoping Moriarty didn't notice my exchange, heaven forbid we inflate his already catastrophic ego, and am swept up, back into his arms. We're dancing again, this time to real, audible music. "I'll have a car sent to your lovely home, then we can get down to business."

He plays the nonchalant party guest with such success its sickening, speaking in tones suggesting that we're doing nothing more than dancing and having an amiable chat. Two can play this way, and I decide that if he's going to do so, by God, I will show him how its done. Like the flip of a switch, Ms. Azalea has stepped in, and I initiate a twirl that has my gown flying around my knees, smiling so wide my cheeks ache. I pretend to stumble forward, and Moriarty is forced to shift his weight to catch me without us tumbling to the floor. Speaking through teeth and tight smile, I say, "I don't think so. I'll be taking my own vehicle, If you please."

He seems entertained by my continuation of the ruse, and I realize that I am, also. It's almost fun, carrying on while the world turns normally around us, and yet none of them can possibly have any idea what's crawling so close to them, beneath the surface. All nervous jitters have left me, and I'm swinging away as if this was all just business as usual "Suit yourself, Kitten. I'm not a worrier of means, as long as the end is met." Patting him playfully on the shoulder, I chide his terms of endearment for me. "What would my clients think if they heard you calling me by those vulgar names? It's hardly fair."

He dips me downward, lips but a hair's breadth from my ear. "What am I to call you then, if not by name, though I'm quite aware of them all?"

He pulls us back up, and I flip a bit of slick black hair back into place above those eyes, now fixed on my own, and I realize with some surprise that they're not quite as dark as they appear. They're the color of thick, aged honey, and I can't help but be a bit disappointed in them, like a veil lifted from his otherwise flawless facade. "I'm certain I instructed you how to address me at our first meeting."

"Oh, be reasonable. I'm rather fond of _Whoopsie Daisy_."

He's grinning like a menacing Garfield now. My mask slips, only so slightly, but I'm not going to let him manipulate me so easily. I kind of deserve the jab, actually. My stage name sounds just as ridiculous as ever, even when it fell with purpose out of his mouth. I had recycled my Roller Derby nickname as a dancer, because I could hardly think of one that wasn't too syrupy sweet and overdone, and I had given up on Derby after a few short months because I was far less graceful on a pair of skates than my teammates and opponents, hence the silly pseudonym they lovingly penned for me. The melodic tune has ceased, and the two of us bow to each other politely, even though I would have gladly slapped him again, only harder.

We part ways and as planned, and on the drive home, Helena pipes up, asking who my "dashing" company was that evening. We so rarely interacted with younger, attractive patrons outside of some guests, most of our clients being of the older money variety, so spending time with one was a bit of a rarity. Opening a bottle of water, I tell her he was just a very well-to-do guest, and no one she should worry about.

"He didn't look like no one, and it seemed like you two were getting along pretty well." She laughs, a light and tinkling thing, hiding her mouth with her hand, and she's teasing me, of course, but I let her get away with it, even as the other girls coo and giggle at my expense. It occurs to me that she's probably broken the two-drink rule, but as long as she didn't make a fool of herself in front of guests, I'll let it slide. I shrug, blushing a little, in spite of myself. It always feels good to be envied, even when its not intentional, and admittedly, Moriarty was dressed to kill that evening. Then again, so am I.

 

As I'm pulling on a pair or grey, sweater patterned tights to go under my collared, button up dress, my phone rings, and unexpectedly, it's Robert. "Yes?"

"I'm coming over tonight."  _Shit._ What do I tell him? "No, you're certainly not. I'm not paying to put your overactive imagination to rest."

He's angry now, voice gruffling at me through the speaker. "Overactive?! Don't treat me like a fucking child, Lacie, I know that Moriarty guy was at the party tonight."

Oh dear. How did he find out, from Helena, maybe? I seriously doubt it. Robert doesn't associate with the girls personally, it would be a ridiculous conflict of interest. Who, then? I think back on the evening, and suppose anyone, really, could have mentioned me dancing with a dark haired stranger, and the information could have easily grapevined itself back to him. I pride myself on being well informed, but he is part of the reason why I am, so it really shouldn't have surprised me that the walls could talk and some of them reported back to Robert. I can't even be mad at him, it means he's doing his job.

"First of all, excuse you, Robert. Secondly, yes, he was there, but it wasn't a big deal. He was a guest of the Mayor's, and was quite pleasant, in fact."

Putting the phone on speaker so I can continue getting ready, I think back to our heated exchange in the garden, and my hand tingles, remembering its contact against his cheek. Him slamming me against the wall and pressing himself just too close; and there's that warmth in my chest again. Stifling it, I wonder how much longer I'm going to be able to keep Rob in the dark before there are any serious repercussions. I'm not sure I want to tell him anymore. I can handle myself, and we're just going to have a conversation. A simple business transaction. I'm not feeling threatened, although that's probably a mistake, seeing as this man has so, so much information on me, and has the power to use it as he sees fit. Will he, though? I'm still not sure what exactly his angle is, but isn't that what we're about to settle? If he really wants to ruin my career wantonly, he would have already done so, so then there's a plan, or a trajectory, or something of the like. And then, there's a creeping thought of just how much of this man's charm is clouding my judgement; muddying my anger toward him, or how threatened and lost he makes me feel?

There's silence on the other line, and I realize Rob must have already responded and was waiting for me to speak. "What was that?"

"Christ, Lace. What's gotten into you?"

I soften, because I truly feel bad for everything I have put that man through, past and present. "Robert, I'm sorry. I'm just tired, it's been a long night. I wont have you wasting your time on nonexistent emergencies."

He relents, begrudgingly, when I reiterate that nothing is wrong, I'm safe at home, and everything is fine. When I hang up the phone to slide into my boots, I do sorely regret being so dishonest with my oldest remaining friend, but I couldn't rely on him to solve a problem of my own creation. I can't go running to him every time I feel scared or insecure, handler of security or not. I just can't. Not anymore.

I'm digging through my bag for my keys when my doorbell rings, and if it's Rob, so help me, I am going to kick his ass so hard he'll be able to taste my nail polish. How dare he disobey a direct order, when at the end of the day, I'm still his fucking boss? Opening the door in a flurry of angry motion, mouth poised to say mean, awful things in spite of just feeling sorry for him moments ago, but it's not Robert. It's well dressed man I do not recognize in the slightest. I'm about to ask him who he is, and why he's standing at my door, when I receive another phone call. Excusing myself, I answer it.

"This is Luke. He'll be driving you this evening."

Goddammit. What is it with everyone deciding they can just take what I say, and do exactly the opposite? I've had it up to fucking here. "I told you I was going to drive myself."

"Of course, dear. You can still take your car, though I do wish you'd have let me extend my welcome by sending you one of mine. And besides, how are you going to get here? You've no idea where I am."

As always, I can see his smug face like he were here, picking me up instead of Luke; whoever he is. Frustration, it seemed, is a state of being I haven't been able to escape in the past few weeks. In thanks, mostly, to the man on the other line. I press the end call button without a word, and push past the man outside my door.

"I'm driving." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tell me I'm your National Anthem. Sugar, sugar, how now, take your body down town_

Someone's crying. Deep, choking sobs, and I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, wondering if I dreamed it, but the woeful noise continues. Throwing a robe on, I followed the sounds down the hall to our live-in housekeeper, Eloisa's room. Standing outside the door, I hesitated before knocking lightly. Eloisa was a very attentive housekeeper, and amazing at her job, in my opinion, even though she was only three years older than me. I couldn't imagine why she was weeping, but I was very fond of her, and we often talked over coffee in the kitchen before my piano lessons on the weekend. At first, there was no answer, but the melodic sound of her sobs stopped abruptly.

"Eloisa? Its Dee. Um, are you okay?"

"Oh ." She pauses, and I hear a sniffle.

"Yes Miss Lacidee, I'm just... I'm okay."

I didn't buy that for a second, and walked in without asking. I read her as a person that wouldn't reach out for help voluntarily, and sometimes you have to assert yourself before they'll accept it. Her feet barely touched the floor from her perch on the end of the bed, and she looked up at me, miserably. "I'm really just fine, it was only a bad dream."

Yeah, right. Her hands were shaking and she recoiled when I moved toward her, so I stopped mid-stride. Just barely, I saw the faint blossoming bruises on her jawline an arms. Her face was half hidden in the darkness of the small space, so I couldn't assess all of the damage. I didn't gasp, or indicate that I had noticed them. I didn't want to spook her, it would only make her cloister herself further. "Listen, you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to, but I don't think those marks were caused by a bad dream, unless you've had a run in with Freddy Krueger."

I thought maybe that would make her laugh, but she didn't appear to get the reference, and only continued staring at the wall behind me. I didn't blame her, it was an awful joke. When she finally did speak, what she had to say floored me. I don't think she intended to disclose everything she had said, but I was familiar with words spilling out in bursts of emotion when you didn't want them to. She explained this all to me, with intermittent pauses of tears, and trying to find the right words to say. I had decided to sit on the floor in front of her while she recounted everything that led up to her current state of being, and made sure to try and keep my face neutral, and not ask questions until she was done.

She told me she was from a small settlement in Eastern Europe that I wasn't familiar with, though I new she originated from around there, because we had spoken about it before. What I didn't know, was that a man she was seeing at the time promised her a job in The States so she could send money back to help her struggling family. The rest is history. He'd smuggled her there under false pretenses, and she somehow ended up as the scarcely paid housekeeper for my disgustingly wealthy parents. Then she told me that my father abused her, often with a belt, and although he had always been a fan of physical punishment, he'd never laid an inappropriate hand on me in my life. I had no idea he was capable of doing the things she said he did to her, and was frankly shocked that I hadn't picked up on his behavior before. My mother also berated her on occasion, which I was witness to more than a few times, and never knew she'd also gone so far as to lay a hand on Eloisa. She had slapped me before, but I was her daughter, and who hasn't been slapped by their mother at some point?

She swore me to secrecy for fear of repercussion, but I knew I had to take action. Leaving her be and telling her I was here for her if she needed anything else, I headed straight to my room to pick up my cordless phone. I felt horrible for not apologizing for the actions of my parents, but it wouldn't fix anything and would have been insultingly self-serving. Adrenaline keeping me focused and angry, I dialed 911 and told them what my father had done. Claiming that the situation wasn't an emergency because the assault wasn't currently taking place, the operator assured me an officer would be by in the next 24 hours to assess the situation.

I didn't sleep. I was too wired up and angry. I had, at some point during my adolescence, surmised that my parents were horrible people. They treated everyone around them as less than, including myself once they realized I wasn't going to turn out at all like they had hoped. I went through the motions like a good girl, going to my lessons and maintaining spotless grades at the overpriced private school they insisted I go to, but a part of them knew that in spite of their efforts, I was somehow able to evolve into a compassionate, forward thinking human being, instead of a spoiled, trust fund brat. I was too smart to fall for their bullshit, and no amount of money or gifts could persuade me, because I already had everything.

In my manic state of unrest, I called my cousin, Ashley, and told her the cliff's notes version of what happened.

"Jesus Christ, Lace, did you call the cops?!"

I signed out a puff of smoke from my bookshelf window, hands shaking. "Yes, I called the police. They said it wasn't a priority."

There was a pause, and I imagined it was her own exhalation of carcinogens, seeing as she was the one I had picked up the habit from. "Well, maybe that's for the best. I mean, this is all totally fucked, but what if she ends up getting deported or lost in the system or something?"

Oh, shit. I had not at all thought of that scenario, and immediately regretted my previous phone call. The last thing I wanted to do was get her sent back to the shitty place she came from, where she might get treated worse than she had been here. I haphazardly threw my spent cigarette out the window and into the garden. I hoped it would catch the shrubbery on fire. "Look, I'll call you tomorrow. I need to figure out what to do."

Shit, shit, shit! What was going to happen now? My heart was beating a mile a minute as I paced my room. I couldn't very well recant my phone call to the police, I couldn't possibly go to Eloisa and tell her I'd betrayed her trust, and maybe endangered her life, either. In lieu of anything productive for lack of knowledge to put thought to action, I remained awake, biting my fingernails and waiting for my unintentionally destructive actions to come crashing down on me once again.

 

Luke is not very forthcoming on the drive to wherever it is that we're headed, in spite of my attempts at polite conversation. Finally, I give up and copy his silence save for telling me which way to turn. I almost contemplate running a few red lights just to see if I can get a rise out of this petulant middle man, but decide it isn't worth my energy. After all, he's probably just following orders from the king of petulance himself. I don't pay attention to trajectory or landmarks, because what's the point? The Man always has a plan, and I'm not willing to give him the benefit of the doubt in assuming I won't memorize the way to his little den and use it against him. Another useless waste of energy.

We arrive at an initially unassuming address, but as I kill the ignition and am escorted to a far gate to the right of the house, I realize its anything but. Tall trees ensconce both the driveway and the brunt of the backyard, and I'm eternally grateful that I chose shoes without heels, because the stepping stones leading to our destination seem purposefully treacherous. The landscaping is impeccable, the yard sprawling as far as my eyes could see through the shadows enforced by the towering trees all around, but I do see two things. The first being a few faint, pale white lights that seemed impossibly discernible beneath water clear cut as glass in the form of a quite sizable swimming pool. The next is the shadow of a man, sitting relaxed by a fire pit that burned orange in front of him, and the distinguishing smell of hot ash didn't escape me, either.

When we reach the pit, Luke attempts to relieve me of my purse, but I decline, ignoring him and seating myself in a padded outdoor chair next to the man himself. Luke leaves us, entering the house almost silently, and all I can hear are the crackles and pops of the flames in front of us. Moriarty is wearing a pair of dress pants and a white cotton undershirt, and this is the first time I've ever seen him without a distractingly expensive suit on. Since I didn't initiate this particular meeting, I remain silent, but don't manage to miss the look on his face. It's the same one he wore earlier in the rose garden, with hands around my wrists; face tilted upward, in that ever feline matter he seems to possess. I begin to wonder if he has noticed my arrival at all, and isn't lost, blessedly, in his own head, but I know better.

"I hope I'm not keeping Cinderella up past her bedtime"

Very slowly his face comes down, but its bathed in flickering shadows and I can't quite see all of his expression. Motioning to the grandeur, I say, "Seems a bit much for a "consultant," doesn't it?"

He chuckles at my use of his own words against him, and picks up a rocks glass filled with a liquid I can't discern via the lighting and asks if I would like one. I almost decline, because even though the champagne from the party has already worn off, I'm a feeling a bit peckish for a drink, but Luke is already beside me, setting down an identical glass on an intricate coaster. Moriarty grins, knowing I would find it presumptuous and therefore irritating. He was right, as always, but I refuse to be ruffled by him if I can help it, and show no sign of the annoyance I feel as I take a drink of the amber liquid. It's sharp and sweet, and I realize it's what must be at least an 18 scotch, cut with just a hint of diet soda. Jesus, is this man trouble. "I figured you'd prefer a lighter version. Girlish figure, and all that."

He seems sincere, for once, and I do appreciate it. I never drink soda unless its diet, artificial sweeteners be damned. Their effects were over-demonized, anyhow. "How thoughtful. Thank you."

He shrugs, murmurs something I don't quite hear, and I realize that he's in a bit of more rare form, when drinking. More relaxed, not as much peacock-ish pretense. I try and return the favor by relaxing myself, but am healthily still wary of he himself, and the impending conversation, the content of which I can still barely guess.

Setting his glass back down, he turns toward me, and lays a hand on top of mine, on the armrest of my chair. The tenderness of the action surprises me, and I'm having trouble not removing my hand into my lap, because his touch is making me delightfully uncomfortable. He looks up at me, and his expression seems incredibly pensive. His eyes don't search mine, in fact he appears to be looking right through me, and I could almost see the thoughts bouncing around in his head. I'm taken aback because he seems almost troubled, and I find that extremely alarming, because he's come off as a man too cool to be affected by anything, really, and can't imagine what was the cause of his concern.

"I'm going to be honest with you, kitten, which is something I rarely find important, but for some damnable reason I feel the need to give you that privilege. And it is a privilege, you can take that at face value." He's talking in circles I can't yet follow, and if this is any indication of how the rest of the conversation is going to play out then it is going to be a long night. I'm also becoming increasingly nervous about all of this, and find myself regretting not telling anyone where I was going to be before I just ran off to speak with a man I barely knew. It wouldn't be the first time my stubbornness has gotten me into trouble.

"What do you mean by that?"

Eyes still disarmingly earnest, he continues, "You've got to stop interfering in the lives of the women you've been trying to help. I realize this is something you care deeply about, but you have to take my word on this; you're far more out of your depth than you think."

I blanch, and do recoil my hand from his, this time. What does he mean, out of my depth? Sure, I have no illusions that I'll be able to keep up my actions forever, but I have been able to handle myself with success, and haven't run into any problems aside from Tommy Banks getting in my way. I thought I had taken good care of that little problem, and the only repercussion was the man beside me entering my life uninvited. How does he know about what I've been doing? Why am I even surprised that he knows, at this point, because he has already proved to me he knows just about everything I've ever done via grandstanding and obtuse actions to get my attention.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about, but what I do for those girls is none of your business, and I can handle myself just fine. I'm not an amateur, as your memory should serve."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, then gives me a look that a parent might give a child who doesn't understand the context of an adult situation. "Do you know that the night you found the book I had sent to you, someone else was in your home? They've been staking you out, and I have some doubt that their intentions are as gracious as mine have been."

"Gracious?! You've been stalking me and leaving cryptic little "messages" concerning my past, which could very well threaten my future, and for what, to spook me?!"

Now that my rant has been satisfied, the rest of his words set in and click. There were people, threatening criminal people, following me, and not only that, but they had gotten into my home, and as rare as it is for me to agree with Moriarty, I seriously doubt it had been to leave me a gift with a note inside. Oh my God. Someone is trying to kill me. How has Robert failed to notice what's going on? Either he has some holes within his security team, or the people after me are  just that good. I can't decide which scenario is worse.

He leans back now, taking another drink, but no longer appears relaxed or forthcoming. "Aren't you even going to thank me for saving your life?"

Ignoring his statement, despite the fact that its completely true, I'm somehow able to swallow my fear for long enough to speak. "Do you know why I do what I do for those girls, James? Do you have any idea?"

His hand stills midway between the table and his lips, but I don't give him a chance to say anything, because words are spilling out of my mouth that I knew I shouldn't be telling him, without my consent. "When I was young, I found out my housekeeper was a victim of human trafficking. My parents kept her there illegally, and barely paid her anything. For all I know, they probably didn't pay her at all. My dad abused and did awful, inhuman fucking things to her, and when I told the police, the did nothing, and she disappeared the next day. My parents pretended like nothing happened. I have no idea what happened to her, and its my fault. Her body is probably rotting in a canyon somewhere, or she's back in Eastern Europe getting abused by someone else. Ask me whatever you want, but never ask me to stop helping them again. I can't. I won't."

There are tears prickling the corners of my eyes now, and even though I am scared, really scared of what could happen, those fuckers pushing back and trying to hurt me only fed the flames of my motivation to not stop. To keep helping them, as long as I possess the power to do so.

"You called me James. Is that an invitation to call you Lacie, now?"

That is what he has to say after all I just told him? I hadn't even noticed the slip, but don't doubt it happened, I'm not exactly in Ms. Azalea mode right now, and it hardly matters. How can he be so cavalier, how can he expect me to react positively to any of this? I am so enraged I can feel how red my cheeks are, and I just lose it. Jumping up, I push the table over that stands in my way, and rear my hand back to strike him. As always, he's a step ahead of me, faster than lightning, crushing me against him, and my arms are pinned, useless, to my waist. I struggle, kicking my legs in a fruitless effort to get away from him, because I don't want to be here anymore, I don't want to see him anymore, because every time I do some other part of my life cracks under the stress of his presence in it.

I'm yelling, writhing, telling him to let me go, but instead of doing what I ask he kisses me, and now even if I wanted to keep trying to get away from him, my body goes still because I don't want to anymore. The power of his hands, now splayed across my cheeks almost painfully, never cease to catch me off guard, because they're not large or imposing like most strong men's were; they're misleading and sneaky and raw. When his tongue rolls into my mouth its sweet, bitter, perfect, just like good scotch. Even though I can't believe this is happening, know its dangerous, know its wrong, I wrap my arms around his neck, and in a flurry of awkward motion we're back in his chair and I'm sprawled across his lap. My hands press against his chest, and find soft hair there, at the base of his collar. I'm kissing back with just as much force as he had initiated with, but I need to stop. I don't want to, I don't, but I manage to force myself away from him, chest heaving. It's been a long time since anyone has kissed me like that. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything, and we're just staring at each other, wondering what the hell just happened. Or at least, I am. James' face is frustratingly vacant, with the ghost of troubled concern he had worn during our conversation. Then he looks into my eyes, and they're is as earnest as I've ever seen them.

"Listen very carefully, Lacie, because I do not repeat myself. I will allow you to carry on with your little game, and I'm going to help you. But you have to know its not because I care about what you're doing or find it charitable, or even worthy of my interest."

His blatant honesty is strikingly raw, and I think tonight is probably going down in my record book as one full of the most surprises in such a short amount of time. "Then why? Why are you doing this, any of this? It doesn't make sense. How are you going to help me without putting yourself in the line of fire? What's in it for you?"

The mask is back, and he reaches for his glass as if I'm not sitting in a confused pile on his lap. "How I'm going to do it isn't your concern. As for why,"

Setting his empty class down he looks me strait in the eye, and it's not searching or predatory, its downright manic. "I've told you I like you, but not exactly what that means, coming from me. Do you know how hard it is to relate to ordinary people? You do, because I've seen you pretend to do it with your piteous clients, and its only noticeable if you're aware of what's happening."

He spits the word "ordinary" as if it were a curse, and I try to slide away from him and stand up, because his intensity is making me extremely ill at ease, but his arms lock me down, making it clear without saying anything that I wasn't to move until he was done. "Both of us have built these kingdoms, these functional fantasy worlds for us to live in and conduct as we please, because neither of us can stand the lack of control outside of them. It's lonely, and its tiring, but we do it because its necessary for our survival."

I find myself enraptured by what he's saying, because although I've never given any thought to it, I realize that he's almost certainly right. Ever since I came back from Japan, I've built my life up and kept a veil between myself and everyone else around me. Hell, I'd even been doing it while there, though then it was out of necessity and not entirely intentional. I have never been able to live happily in anyone else's world, not my parents', not Ashley's, not anyone's, and so I constructed my own palace that prevents me from having to.

"You never react in predictable ways when baited, never roll over, never give in easily, and though its not exactly the smartest course of action, its certainly entertaining."

He smiles, relinquishing his grasp, and I'm up and angry again because he's not only playing a game with me, he's been playing a game within a game from the start, one where he's intimately aware of all the pieces and how they move. Its fascinating, but none the less unsettling, either. "You can keep your horses and men, thanks. I'll find a way to handle it myself."

"Oh? And how is that? With your silly team of body guards, lead by a man who is quite obviously letting his personal feelings for you prevent him from doing his job correctly, both of which have failed to protect you not only once, but twice? If we'd left it up to them, you'd be nothing but a lovely corpse by now."

Why is this happening? I'm pissed and confused and terrified in so many ways, I can't begin to follow my own trains of thought. I know he's right, yet again, surprise surprise, because if he wasn't, he never would have been able to gain entry to my home, and my would-be assassin wouldn't have, either. I'm at the point where I'm actually having to compartmentalize my problems, because trying to deal with them all at once is an impossible task, so I do my best to stay present and address the one currently sitting in front of me. He reaches for my hand, but doesn't kiss it this time, only rubs his face into my palm like a cat marking its territory. His stubble gives me goosebumps, and I'm fighting not to pull away, like always.

"So you want to keep me safe, despite not caring about the actions that have gotten me into trouble, just so I can "entertain" your childish boredom?"

"You've misunderstood me again, kitten. I mean to keep us both entertained, because I've watched you. I've learned from this, and from my recreational "research," and I can tell you with certainty, that you're just as bored as me, the only difference is that you've no one to play with."

This is all too much for me right now, compartmentalization or not. I ask to go home, and he calls Luke out to escort me to my car, and I don't even fight him when James removes my keys from my grasp and tells me Luke will be driving this time. My exhaustion hits me all at once, and the only thing that keeps me from falling into a comatose heap on the grass beneath us is James' hands on my waist, holding me steady. His lips grace just the corner of my mouth, and though I was normally hyper aware of an audience, I could care less right now, and in spite of my my tired stress I still feel electric butterflies.

"Until next time, Kitten. I'll be in touch."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dark and lonely, I need somebody to hold me..._

Typing away at my office computer, I nearly jump right out of my chair when I hear a loud bang behind me. Swinging around with letter opener in hand, there's a pigeon fluttering awkwardly away, and I realize it must have smashed itself into the window behind me, the poor thing. Shit a brick, I'm jumpy these days. Alleged assassins and cryptic warnings from one very manic consultant most certainly being the cause of my unease. My phone goes off and the letter opener clatters to the floor, nearly giving me another heart attack within all of 10 seconds. Kicking the tool to the left with my heel, I grab my phone off of the desk, and check my messages.

Its from the automated scheduling system I have implemented, that notifies me every time there's a request for an event to be scheduled. Setting the phone down, I sink back into my office chair and open the event program to see who had put in the service request.

_Mr. Mycroft Holmes requests the presence of Ms. Azalea and appropriate associates for a party thrown in his brother's honor in two weeks time. Specifications of date, time, and location will be worked out upon your aquesence of this request._

There's a list of references in the email, even though I only require one to attend an event hosted by a non-client. I know of M. Holmes of course, and he's been present at an event or two where I've been employed, but he never seemed entirely interested in the company of the Azalea girls, or any females at all, that I've taken note of. His brother I have also heard of. He's garnering quite a lot of publicity recently. Some kind of private investigator, or the like. I can't remember, and don't watch a lot of television. I can't think of a reason not to accept the invitation, so I start working out the details and tell Kerri to make a few calls.

There's an unexpected knock at the door, and Robert shambles in, ducking slightly in the entryway. I've been avoiding him like the plague these last few days. I'm miffed at him, but couldn't exactly explain why, due to the fact that he knows nothing about James and I. Hell, I still don't know anything about James and I, and am avoiding contact with him as well, which is easy, since he hasn't attempted to contact me either. I try not to sound pissed but fail. "What is it, Rob?"

He takes a seat on the windowsill behind my desk, and I'm forced to swivel around in my chair to meet his gaze. He's staring out the window, then seems to notice the smudge on the glass that the kamikaze pigeon had left earlier. "I've been looking through the surveillance videos of your apartment."

Trying to keep my cool, I respond, "Why have you been going over the footage without my permission?"

His fingers are tapping anxiously against his slacks. "Because its my job, Lacie. I've been looking over the footage and I've noticed some things. I think you're being followed."

I bristle, already knowing I'm being followed. I have access to cameras outside of my building, and there is only one camera in the hall leading up to my condo. I don't make a habit of keeping cameras in my apartment, for obvious reasons. "Why do you say that?" I summon up my pokerface, cool, giving away nothing.

"There have been a couple of unmarked cars parked outside of the building the past few weeks. One time someone got out of one, but the footage that covers the corridor to your room was compromised, somehow. He never came back to the car, and it got towed later in the day."

"Sounds like someone's sleeping on the job."

He looks at me then, and I can tell he's angry. His brows are knit tightly above the bridge of his nose. "How am I supposed to keep you out of trouble when you're keeping me at arm's length? You told me you didn't want surveillance on the condo, and that you didn't want me there, either. Look where that's gotten you."

Closing my eyes, I rub my middle finger and thumb over my forehead, a habit I indulge in when stressed, and feel a headache coming on.

"Its strange, though. After the incident where the man entered your building and disappeared, the stake-outs have stopped. Not a peep since that night."

_Maybe that's because someone more capable is doing your job for you._

This has become a tiresome and difficult situation. I care about Rob, but his involvement on my payroll is becoming a conflict of interest. When I hired him he was fresh off of a four year stint in the Air Force; a real fly boy. I foolishly believed he had gotten over what happened all those years ago with my family, back in Texas. I've always trusted him implicitly, and know he's perfect for the job of taking care of my security. He's never failed me before, and at first, it was fine. More than fine, he's competent, dedicated, punctual, organized, discreet, everything I ever need or ask him to be. None of that changes the fact that it just isn't working anymore. I lean forward, crossing my legs and propping my elbows up against them. "Robert, listen. You know I trust you, and will never take for granted everything you've done for me."

"Lace-" His tone is warning, and he rises from his sitting position to tower over me with his arms crossed indignantly.

"Robert, me me finish." Tone matching his, if not a bit more shrill and bitchy, I continue, "I think...I think that..." Christ, what do I think? What can I say that will explain any of this? I know he's right in part that I've been making it harder for him to do his job by being stubborn and secretive, but that isn't the only problem, and it isn't the point.

"I think you're overworked, and its been affecting your performance. Also, you've been...you've been stepping out of bounds with me, personally, and its making me uncomfortable. You've pushed me into a corner, really."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Lace?! I've been doing nothing but my job for you since day one, even when you don't want me to. You say you've never taken me for granted, but you have no idea just how much work I do to keep you safe behind the scenes." He's worked up now, seething, really, and has turned his face away from me to hide just how mad he is, but he can't hide anything from me, and I feel my heart twitch painfully when I read hurt and embarrassment on his face as well.

"As for 'stepping out of bounds,' I'm not the one who called you hysterical and asked you to cuddle me to sleep. God, Lace!" He steps forward, placing a hand on either side of my chair. I'm not scared, I've no reason to be, but the action is no less shocking. I've never seen him so worked up before.

"You've had me wrapped around your little finger since we were teenagers! I broke off an engagement and moved to another country for you, and all you've done is treat me like any other part of 'the help,' despite the fact that you've been stringing me along like a prissy high school cheerleader."

"You needed a job. I didn't ask you to leave Lily, you said it wasn't working out."

I can't meet his eyes, but I'm afraid to look down because if I do, the tears stinging behind them will fall into my lap. A part of me knows he's right, knows I've been terrible to him, and for what? To fulfill my senseless need to be wanted? To know that there is someone out there who has seen my worst, and can still stand to be around me? To know that someone who isn't paying me actually enjoys my company?

In his fury he kisses me, but I taste the ghost of spearmint on is tongue, and it only reminds me of why I have to let him go. I've never seen him so determined when he pulls away, blue eyes crystal clear, pleading with mine. "I love you, Lace. Just let me protect you."

A renegade tear slides out, marring my mascara. My chest hurts so bad it's hard to breathe. "I don't think I need you anymore."

It's barely a whisper, but the message is received. Robert isn't a man to beg, or overstay his welcome. He's stubborn, but also proud, and I know the only way to get the message through is to be very clear, as cruel as it is and as sick as I feel rebuking my best friend. "I'll tell Kerri you're taking a paid leave of absence."

"No need. You'll have my letter of resignation by the end of the day. Greta will be your head of security now. Try not to get in the way of her doing her job."

He hasn't looked at me once after the kiss, and then he's gone, stomping out of my office and down the hall. I still myself for a few moments, and I can feel the levity of the situation weighing down on my heart and mind like a boat with too many passengers. I tell myself what I have done is necessary. It needed to be said, Robert needs to take a break and pull himself together. I have to believe that. In the meantime, I wipe the lone tear away, dab at my eyes to fix my makeup, and continue working, trying not to dwell on the fact that my sequestered world has just gotten a whole lot lonelier. I stay at the office much later than usual, pouring myself completely into my work, organizing my next big event to the last minute detail, when I receive a text message. Rubbing my eyes, I pick up the phone and glance at the screen. Restricted number.

_Come see me. I miss you._

Are you kidding me? Now, of all times, he decides to reach out? What does that even mean?

_You don't know me well enough to miss me._

I'm collecting my things and getting ready to lock up, but my phone's persistent buzzing is preventing me from doing so.

_I know you're in a bad mood. Let me cheer you up._

Goddammit. I am getting really tired of being under constant surveillance. Is there anyone that doesn't know what I am doing at all times?

_I'm not in the mood for you._

The halls are dark and uninviting as I breeze through them. I've always been uneasy in the dark, especially in buildings.

_Oh, be reasonable. I've already dispatched Luke to your office._

I'm punching back a fiery text on the way out the door when a car pulls to the curb in front of me. Sighing, I stamp my foot like a child, and receive a raised eyebrow from the driver. I really don't feel like going back home right now. I'm almost always alone there, but I'm just not ready to face all of the empty that will greet me at the door in my current state of distress. James had better hope he has alcohol. I open the back door and slide in, but send the text anyway, in defiance.

_If you do not leave me alone, I'm going to drive to your stupid villa, reorganize all of your flamboyant suits, and turn every single painting sideways on my way out._

I know actions like these will bother him, because they would have bothered me as well. Besides, no one spends so much time as he must planning perfectly matching outfits that do not hold their organization and placing close to their hearts. And I'd seen him glare at a frame hanging off kilter when we were dancing at the gala.

_You wouldn't dare._

I don't reply, instead choosing to watch the streetlights and storefronts go by. Luke is quiet, as usual, and I don't attempt to engage him. Just don't have it in me, tonight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lost and lonely, I need somebody to hold me. He will do very well, I can tell, I can tell, keep me safe in his bell tower hotel._

Luke leads me around the back of the ginormous structure of a house again, and James is perched in the same chair he was last time. The porch lights are on in lieu of a fire. As Luke retreats into the house, I come up behind James and snag his glass off of the side table, drinking it down all at once. Whoo. Not diluted this time. He glances at me under his dark lashes over one shoulder.

"That bad of a day?"

I sink down into the chair next to him just as a woman I don't recognize produces a tray with two more drinks and a pack of menthols, along with a fancy embossed flip lighter. I pick up my glass and take a swig, already feeling the burn in my throat and a slight pleasant fuzziness in my brain, to muddy my emotions. This man literally knows everything about me. I haven't smoked in years, save for sneaking one in stressful situations and at holidays now and again, but damn if he didn't get it right down to the brand. They were even 100's, which was a detail people often missed when I sent them to fetch my cigarettes. I draw one out of the pack and he leans over me to grab the lighter, igniting it for me. I love it when men do that. It's almost a deal breaker if a guy isn't gentlemanly enough to provide the gesture, haughty as that sounds. I can take care of myself, but that doesn't mean I don't like being treated now and then.

Exhaling a grey puff of smoke into the night, I cross my legs, and reach to take my heels off, but he's faster than me again, and kneels down to do so for me, deft fingers undoing the straps with care. He's done this before. "You already know how bad my day has been."

He gently removes each shoe and sets them beside each other out of the way, left to right as they would be if they were on my feet. OCD details. He rubs his cheek against my calf, one foot still in hand, and his stubble makes me want to jump out of my skin. Returning to his chair with drink and cigarette in hand, he lights his own before speaking. "Of course I do, dear, but it would be rude not to let you tell me about it in your own words, and besides, I like hearing the sound of your voice. Gives me a break from my own."

I lean back, stretch out my sore toes, and take a drag. I can chain smoke all night if I have a drink in my hand. "I had to let Robert go. It got messy."

James looks pensive for a moment, then smiles. "Let me guess, he professed his love and tried to persuade you with an intimate gesture."

He's grinning, hiding it behind his glass, because he knows he's right, and I'm glaring at him. I give up after a few seconds because its making my eyes hurt, already burdened by the heavy, besmudged mascara. "He accused me of stringing him along, and using him for self-assurance."

"Did you?"

I set my drink down and reach for his, stealing it into my mouth. He seems amused by my impolite gestures, and shoots a quick text, assumedly asking that more drinks be served. When I'm in a sour mood, I drink very quickly, and if I have company while drinking, as I often used to but don't anymore, if they weren't drinking as fast as me, they knew to expect I'd be doing their part for them. Most people find it endearing, but I couldn't care either way. Watered down alcohol is as a waste.

"You don't have to answer, I already know that you did. What you have to understand is-" He pauses to lean on his knees. "That people like us, we're not the adoring ones. We don't covet other people, put them up on a pedestal, because we know deep down no one is worth it. They're all the same. Most people are better in the obscure, but we can't have that, no. We have to know everything about everything and digest it, picking it apart until there's nothing left but bleached bones. Makes relationships quite complicated."

He shakes his head at this, to drive his point home. I've never looked at it that way, but I know he's accurate. I've only "idolized" or truly "wanted" a handful of men in my life, but I push too hard and know too much and it never works out. I can never put on those fabled rose colored glasses so many other women seem to keep handy, I never let anyone fool me, and because you have to be fooled to fall in love, I don't think I ever had been. This makes my job all the more easy, because it means I don't really miss dating, seeing as it's be crass to do so. I enjoy pleasing my clients and having a good time, and that's enough. "He's my best friend. I've know him since we were kids." 

He smiled, staring off into the lights beneath the water in the pool, which served to cool the breeze in our direction further. "I know. Just like I know he was never really your friend, at least not like you're insinuating. His motives have always been driven by the hope that one day, he would have done enough to make you see and believe that he was worthy of having you, and that's not friendship at all."

I'm sinking further and further into my chair, and I wish I would disappear right through it. I'm sad now, because James is right. James is always right. I was a late bloomer, so to speak. Ashley was always the pretty one, I was the smart one. She and all of our fake, rich girlfriends always garnered more attention from boys, so I'd formed the habit of latching on to ones that actually showed interest like a flotation device, even if I knew I had no intention of pursuing a relationship with them. I guess it was tit for tat that I mistreated them, when all they wanted was me in bed, or me as a girlfriend. I'm still almost devastated that Robert turned out the same way. He's always been there for me, but has it only been for show? No, that's not the right term. Has it always under the delusion that one day I'd fall in love with him just because? I don't know anymore, and I don't want to. I also don't know James well enough to trust that he's not throwing Rob under the bus to make me more vulnerable. If that's his intention, it's working.

James never takes his eyes off me, watching the emotions play on my face with a tired smile. His lashes and eyes were so dark, so pretty, it was almost effeminate; the antithesis of what I usually find attractive. Being small, I'm drawn toward large men. They make me feel more fragile, more feminine, and I like that. I like knowing their bodies can swallow me, that one of their hands can easily equal two of mine.

"If you keep drinking like a sailor, you'll be asleep in a half hour."

I glare, turning away from him and snogging the last of my drink like a stubborn child. "Don't tell me what to do, you dandy ass."

"Oh, you are just a treat." Face propped in hand, grinning like the maniac he was, he was enjoying this. Enjoying the unwanted realizations that he's forcing on me. Games, games, always games. The house is always in favor, shadow take all.

His head nods toward the pool. "Let's go for a swim."

"I don't have any other clothes."

Its not that I don't want to, I do. I actually like swimming quite a bit. Good for muscle tone and still quite relaxing, but I'm not going in my panties and I'm not ruining my clothes, either.

"No matter."

He shoots another text, and a few moments later Luke emerges with a long, sky colored button up.

"Are you joking?"

He begins removing his shirt, and I see a faint trail of black peachfuzz that disappears into his waistband. "I never joke when it comes to clothing. Besides, I don't have any women's bathing suits, either. What do you take me for?"

The pants are off, revealing boxer briefs beneath. Shit. I meander toward Luke and examine the shirt in question. "This is Gucci."

Luke hands me the shirt and saunters away, and I'm staring at it, like I've forgotten how shirts work.

"I wouldn't see you in anything less."

This is too much. Alright, if he wants to ruin a perfectly good button up, I'm going to stop him. I tell him to turn around and he quirks an eyebrow, but does so anyway. The shirt fits snug and barely covers my ass, though that's not entirely its fault. There's a lot to cover. James extends a hand and I take it, letting him lead me into the water. My feet are in and its gloriously cool. He catches me off guard by pulling my arm, and my body has nowhere to go but splashing into his, shoulder deep, for me. I hate getting my hair wet in pools, because of the havoc chlorine wreaked on it, but it's too late now. He's holding me still but I push away from him, ducking under and coming back up to smooth my hair away from my face. I know from experience my mascara will be smudged all down my face, but don't care anymore. He regards me for a moment, and I realize I'm staring right back, but his eyes move down and I follow his gaze to my bra, which is now showing through the fabric of his shirt. I raise my eyebrow; don't know what to say. I should have known better.

"White would have been to obvious." That grin and those teeth, I'd like to knock them right out of his face.

"You're a shit."

"You're entertaining and enabling my behavior."

He's grabbed me under the arms and spun me around, falling backwards under the surface, with me in tow. I try to struggle free at first, because I hate being held underwater, it always makes me panic like a child. Then he lets me go and kicks away, while I use my feet to break the surface of the water and gasp for air. When he comes up moments later, he's grinning like an idiot, and so am I, because he never struck me as the playful type. I dive back under and swim toward him, enjoying the cool liquid rushing against my skin. He's on the bottom of the deep end now, and gestures for me to come over. I sink deeper, skimming my hands along the tile flooring of the pool and float slowly into his arms. He smashes his lips into mine, and its forceful, because you have to be against the water. My eyes are closed and we're floating slowly toward the surface, limbs intertwined and lips still pressed together.

When we break the surface I'm treading water, and he brushes my hair away from my eyes, before paddling away to the hot tub. Did I mention there was a hot tub? One of the heightened ones that spills warm water down into the main pool. I follow close behind. I've always loved the rush of being in cold water and the electric way the hot will burn against your skin before your body can acclimate itself. I splash in next to him and I'm up to my collarbones, where he's at about bicep level. I don't realize my hand is on top of his when I subconsciously intertwine my fingers into his. He looks down, just the corner of his mouth twitching upward. I'm enjoying the tingling sensation of my body getting used to the not too hot, but just scalding enough temperature.

"Told you I'd cheer you up."

Leaning back, I close my eyes and look up at the stars. "I hardly think it counts, seeing as you're often the main cause of my upset."

He's wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me toward him, and my heart leaps up just like it did when he kissed me minutes ago. His effect on me is baffling. He's insufferable, and I don't know why I keep letting him get away with things that would have heads rolling if done by others.

"I can't be that bad. If I was, you wouldn't have come over."

My eyebrows shoot up at this. "You don't let me say no."

He's shrugging, pulling me into his lap, and my body is freezing above the waterline, but I hardly notice, because he's pressed his face into the crook of my neck, murmuring against my skin, causing tiny tickling vibrations. "Its not a word I like to hear."

He meets my eyes, and for once it seems like he's asking for permission. That which I shouldn't give, but the water's too warm, and my thoughts are too clouded by drinks and letting go, letting myself actually have some uninhibited fun. Free from the company, free from the obligation to help the helpless, free from my gilded cage. It's just he and I in this state, and it feels like we're on another plane, like nothing else is real. He must see the acceptance in my gaze, because his arms around me tighten, and his mouth returns to my neck, pressing kisses, swirling his tongue in rhythm with the blood pulsing just beneath the surface. My head's thrown back and one hand tangles itself in my hair, tugging and twisting, exposing more of my neck. The action forces my body to bow forward, pressing further into his so I can still breathe. I'm clutching onto his shoulders for dear life and my nails dig into the skin there. His other hand slips beneath the fabric of my shirt now made thin soaked with water, and I can feel him grace my the hem of my panties with a few fingers. They're like static against my skin, and I gasp because aside from myself, that part of me has gone untouched for quite a while. I've forgotten how exciting it is to have foreign hands there. He's sliding one finger down the middle and I can't take it. I still can't see his face because my head is still being forced upward, eyes rolling back.

"Oh, please."

Its just a heated whisper, but it changes everything. His head is back in my neck and he's biting down, deep. Clawing at my skin with his teeth. I can't help but cry out, because it hurts, but I want it. I want him. He releases my hair and air rushes back into my lungs. His eyes are fucking terrifying. Drowning deep with pupils blown, and I can't imagine mine look much different. Then he pushes the thin fabric of my underwear aside and slides a finger just down my folds. I can't believe how wet I am, even in the water. I need this so badly, and I rock my hips forward, forcing his hand further. He smiles, biting down on my collarbone. Does he want me to beg? Because I'm at the point that I will do or say anything that will make him continue. I say please again, and this time its a whimper. A whimper I know he loves to hear, and I love that he loves it, because Please is easy, and I'll say it a thousand times if I have to.

Using his whole hand, he massages circles around my clit, goddamn, just the way I like it. Most men pay too much attention to the center itself, and though I've heard that works for some, it always overstimulates and annoys me. Not this. This is heaven in a hot tub. Mercifully, he slips a digit inside and my back straitens. God, it feels so good. While he explores my insides, I'm pressing his face into my cleavage, other hand burying itself in his hair, and he slides another finger in, stretching me ever so slightly. He groans into my breasts and comes up for air. "Christ, Lace. You're so tight."

 _Lace._ Few people call me that anymore, but it sounds so good coming out of his mouth, rolling off his tongue like silk perfection.

"Don't stop."

And he doesn't. He doesn't dare. He's shoving his fingers in me and curling them delightfully, making me writhe in his grasp. Our movements have undone the few top buttons of his shirt, and he's biting down at the curves of my breasts over the top of my bra. I'm trying not to wiggle as much as I am, and in my feverish state, I revel in not only the feeling of him drawing me closer and closer to the edge, but also at the feeling of him swollen between my thighs, just a breath of fabric between us both. So close. I'm being so loud but I can't help it, and his breathing is elevated, his eyes still so predatory, staring up at me when he's not marking me with his teeth. Deciding to repay him in kind, I catch the skin just under his ear, stretched around his jaw, and grasp it hard with my teeth. I love the sound he makes, so I continue up his neck and take his ear into my mouth. He jerks his head to the side and claims my mouth with his, forcing my face to remain where he wants it with his free hand.

I can feel myself coming closer, and then I realize he wants me to come for him. He doesn't want to draw it out of me with his cock, but with his hand. I can't help but feel like a giddy teenager, and use his groin and and abdomen as leverage to help me give him what he's looking for. "Shit, James."

He replies by humming against my neck, then a third finger joins the other two, and my mouth opens in surprise, because dear God, this man has had some fucking practice. When the wave crashes down, I cry out, and its a shuddering thing. My head falls to his chest, fingers clutching, thighs clinging to the last fleeting moments of my orgasm. He withdraws his fingers from me, and brings them to his lips, and watching him taste me is just decadent. I kiss him hard, because I want to see what both of us tastes like in his mouth. We stay like that for a while, kissing softly and licking each other's lips like hungry kittens. Then the magic is gone, we're back down on earth, and our breathing has returned to normal. 

"I should go." I lift myself up out of the water, and the breeze stings against my flushing legs. Crossing my arms for warmth, I look back at James, and he's coming out as well.

"Nonsense. Let's go inside and get cleaned up, have some tea." I glance down at his soaked briefs, and his excitement is still quite apparent. He smiles at me, and begins walking toward the house. "Don't worry about me, I fully intended on letting you enjoy your night. You've had a rough go today."

I trail behind him like a lost puppy. He doesn't make any sense whatsoever. He's a complete anomaly, I realize with both contempt and awe. I can plan like the dickens, but he seems to be so good at predicting how people will react, that he can organize entire evenings around each person. The fact that he did so for me was actually sweet, or at least, it seems sweet to me.

I sat down at the island in a very enormous kitchen, done up with Black Galaxy tiled counters with black and silver accessories to match. Why did rich people always have Black Galaxy Tile? Very modern, but also very clinical; like a copy from a high end magazine. "What kind of tea?"

He's rummaging through the cupboards with a black towel wrapped around his waist like he isn't familiar with them, and that's probably true.

I'm snuggled in a matching one around my shoulders. "I'd actually prefer coffee, please."

"That's nonsense. You should be ashamed."

He's tinkering with a Keurig now, popping a small cartridge of tea into it, and I'm tired all over again. "I'm not staying here."

Turning around while the machine heats up, he crosses his arms and chides me with his expression. "Black, then?"

I nod, and am grateful when he sets my cup down in front of me, and a tray with cheese and crackers. I've barely eaten today, and my stomach is raw and unhappy.

"Come now, its just one night, and your propriety is hardly at stake, we've kind of eradicated that already."

He's popping crackers into his mouth and doesn't look up at me. I'm studying his face, though. Trying to see through his ever present veil of bullshit. Why does he want me to stay? Does he know something I don't? That seems paranoid. I don't like sleeping in unfamiliar places, I always have shit dreams, and wake up confused, which puts me in a bad mood at the start of the day. I really don't have the energy to argue, and am quite tired. I still didn't want to be alone, and that makes me feel weak. I'm not accustomed to needing the presence of other people to serve my own comfort. I like liking to be alone. Slipping up with Robert was a mistake, and I paid for it in more ways than one.

Maybe he's sincere. He hasn't given me reason to doubt his motives; at least not tonight. He hasn't asked anything of me, even to return the favor of a just about earth shaking orgasm, and that's an action I'm entirely unfamiliar with. Nobody does that. Not even me. Sexual frustration is suffocating, and puts me in an awful, sour mood.

"Okay." My voice is soft and defeated. I'm too tired for that to make me mad.

His eyebrows raise again, and he speaks through a mouth of half masticated crackers. "Really, now? I go fully expected more resistance, but am pleasantly surprised that I don't have to come up with any more ways to persuade you."

I hate it when people talk with their mouth full. I used to do it all the time, sometimes defiant of my parents or other company I didn't respect, but now it's kind of...cute? Endearing? I don't know. I enjoy this rare softer side of himself, not the pressing, searching, business like way he speaks to me in riddles, though I do enjoy having our exposed, if not sometimes distressing debates.

He let's me change into one of his undershirts and a pair of PJ pants that would fit me if it wasn't for my hips. When I come out of the closet he's laying atop the covers, eyes closed, like a napping cat. One eye opens when I enter the room and pad over to the other side of the bed. Tentatively, I slip under the sheets and am greeted by an indulgently comfortable bed and tempurpedic pillow. Heaven for my neck and back. He's turned off the lamp and tucked himself in next to me, but I remain far away from him on my side of the king-sized bed, afraid to move any closer. I turn over on my stomach, cuddling a mound of comforter under the crook of my arm. "Does it ever get any easier?"

I can't see him but hear his head shuffle toward me. "What's that?"

"I don't know. Living life like you do. Running everything, calculating all the time. Don't you get tired?"

He's silent for a time, and I wonder what he's thinking about. The unwritten list of items must be a baffling document. I can relate.

"Of what I do? No. I don't get tired. Its hard to, I enjoy it. I do get burned out by the banal, run of the mill people that populate this world, my life. Its hard to keep engaged when I constantly feel like I'm speaking to a room full of three year olds."

He turns on his side, head propped up on his pillow, and he's speaking quickly now, in a voice that seems to question his own words, like he's realizing for the first time that he feels what he's saying, not carefully calculating his statements. Honesty. "My whole life, I can't seem to stop searching. To keep myself engaged, to find a plug for this, hole, this black hole in my head that sucks everything in and uses it up before I can truly enjoy the heart of it. Every time I try, all I seem to find are fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don't match up, and it never goes as planned. But when they do match up, its really lovely."

I make a humming noise, digesting his words. I also missed this; laying in bed with someone and talking in the dark. Its so much easier to be sincere when you don't have to digest facial expressions and body language. I think back fondly of living with Ash, and how we'd stay up for hours in the dark on our ridiculous bunk-beds just...talking. I'm not quite as cold and calculating and compartmentally inclined as he is with my own life, but I understand searching. Playing hide and seek with an idea of happiness I haven't yet found. Surely even this calm camaraderie I've found with Jim will not last forever. It's fleeting like everything else.

Realizing this I scoot closer to him, press myself against his body with my head in the crook of his arm. He smelled of chlorine and aftershave and just, skin. Warm male skin. I wanted to hold onto this mysterious sense of peace as long as I could. It felt good to feel a heartbeat against my ear while I drifted off to sleep, and it's the first time in ages that I haven't needed a handful of pills to do so.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's a love story for the new age, For the six page, We're on a quick sick rampage, Wining and dining, Drinking and driving, Excessive buying, Overdose and dyin', On our drugs and our love and our dreams and our rage, Blurring the lines between real and the fake_

I sat on Robert's couch, absentmindedly chewing on Twizzlers, when he and Ashley finally returned through the front door of his apartment. "What took you guys so long?"

Ashley looked like shit. Her hands shook as she dumped out a brown paper bag full of pill bottles onto the coffee table. Robert is the one who answered. "None of the clinics will check her in on the holiday weekend, and the first few wouldn't even give us anything."

I rolled my eyes. The healthcare system in this country was bogus. We were going to try and get Ash checked into rehab, but suspected none of the clinics would take her with the pending holiday, so our backup plan was to crash out at Robert's place while she recovered bootleg style. We had to stay here because I still needed to work, and wouldn't always be here to watch her. Robert and I were going to have to do it in shifts.

Heroine recovery is a bitch and a half, and most folks were lucky if they saw the other side of it at all. I knew Ash wanted to get clean, but knew I couldn't trust her on her own. I didn't even bother to look at what they had managed to scramble together for her, and she disappeared into the bathroom a few minutes later. Robert sat down next to me, throwing an arm over my shoulder. "She's gonna make it through, Lace, but she needs help. The pills will keep the withdrawal in check, at least a little."

I kept chewing on my Twizzlers as I lit up a cigarette, then slouched into Robert's shoulder. He was the only person I could rely on or trust besides Ashley, and I was glad he'd followed my lead and moved away from his parents. They weren't quite as ludicrous is mine, but birds of a feather, and all that.

I went off to work at Beucoup's later and had to explain why Ash wouldn't be there for the next few weeks. The girls cooed and congratulated her decision to get clean, patting me on the back for being so supportive. The owners could care less; strippers were paid via a convoluted system that meant you only made money if you sold drinks and dances. If she wasn't here, they didn't have to worry about paying her a dime.

When I got back in the wee hours, Robert had already left for his own job, so I cleaned up, grabbed a donut, and headed to the room Ashley and I were claiming, then collapsed into bed next to her. I didn't mean to, but had woken her up. She looked worse than she had earlier. Eyes sunken in with dark circles underneath, and a thin sheen from the cold sweat her body was forcing on her. I laid the back of one hand on her forehead. No fever just yet.

She rolled onto one side so she was facing me. The room was dark because of the blackout blinds we had hung on the window behind the bed.

"Do you remember that time you got a fishhook stuck in your finger when we were little, that time our parents were off playing golf?"

I snorted and ran my thumb across the scar on my index finger. "How could I forget? The babysitter almost had a heart attack once she realized she wasn't going to be able to pull it off herself."

"And that time you shot me in the face with granny's BB gun trying to hit a possum?"

We were both laughing now. The BB scar had faded, contrary to mine, which had required a grand total of one stitch to close up. "Yeah, we did a lot of stupid shit."

Ashley lay her head down on a pillow, still on her side. Her voice came out as a murmur that said she was falling back asleep. "I guess we still do, huh?"

When I woke up I rolled over to check the time on the bedside table's alarm clock. It was 6pm, and we'd both slept the whole day away. I got up to check and see if Rob was home, but all I found was a note saying he'd be back from work in time for dinner. I reentered the bedroom and lay my hand on Ashley's shoulder. "Get up, Ash. Its 6, you need to eat something."

Goosebumps rose on my arms and legs; there was something wrong. Her shoulder was stiff, like there was hard wax beneath her skin, not soft muscle tissue. "Ash."

I was shaking her then, but she never moved. Her body wasn't limp, and it was resisting my persistent shoves. I yanked the blinds down from the windows, not knowing why I hadn't just turned the lights on. Panic was making my actions less sensical. When the light shone on her face, I breathed a sigh of relief. Her chest moved, she was breathing, but her face looked...just _wrong_. All of her features had slid to the side like icing on a hot cake. I looked down and realized my knees had actually moved the bed when they landed on it.

She wasn't breathing. _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck fuck! I knocked the bedstand over trying to get to the phone to dial 911, but my eyes never strayed from her face. Her own eyes were so sunken it looked like they were surrounded in bruises. When the operator answers me I realized I was crying, can't breathe, wasn't forming any real words. It was over. Ash was dead.

 

Later, I was huddled next to Rob at my parent's house, and being questioned by a holier than though female police officer. Our coffee sat cold and sad on the table in front of us. I wasn't really looking at her as I answered her questions. My body felt heavy, like the earth's core was pulling it down. I hadn't cried since the initial phone call, but my eyes and head still hurt.

"Okay, so run me through all of this one more time, Miss Grayson."

Rob instinctively pulled his arm tighter around me. "She's already told you everything she knows. She went to bed, and when she tried to wake Ashley up she was gone," his voice faltered then, but the big brave warrior continued his rant, anyway. What I wouldn't give for his steady train of thought. "She called the police. Can't you see how tired she is?"

I pushed my hair out of my face and fought the urge to feel anything. "Alright, lover boy. Calm down."

Officer bitch for brains got up to go talk to my parents. This was all too much. Ashley was dead, and I hadn't been able to do anything to save her. She was pronounced such at the scene, but there had to have been something, anything I could have done. If only I'd woken up earlier, I could have checked on her, could have gotten her help.

As if Rob could read my mind, he told me I had to know it wasn't my fault, even though he'd said as much no less than a hundred times. He could say it a hundred more and I would still never believe him. I enabled her addiction; never told her to stop or slow down, even when I knew it was getting out of hand, and that, to me, was unforgivable.

When my Aunt came rushing into the room, it caught me off guard, and even when I hit the hardwood floor I still wasn't quite sure what was going on. "This is all your fault, you little wench!"

Rob was up and on his feet but I was quicker, the officer and my parents arriving just in time to see me slap my Aunt harder than I'd ever struck anyone in my life. Rob grabbed my arms and tried to pull me away while my mother's shrill cries echoed off of the ceiling. My Aunt was still holding her face when she spit at me, and was lucky it landed just shy of my feet. As mad as I was, I will never forget her words.

"You did this."

We found out later that the official cause of death was an accidental heroine overdose. They had found cocaine, various painkillers, and an unsettling amount of pure heroine in her bloodstream. The police were able to surmise that she had slipped out between Robert leaving for work and my coming home that morning to score one last hit. They never caught the guy who sold it to her.

That's the thing with heroine recovery. Like every other drug, over time, your body builds up a tolerance to certain levels of it. When people try to quit, over a short period of time that tolerance disappears, and often what is assumed to be "one last hit" or just enough to take the edge off before going to rehab is what kills them.

I was still stone cold by the time the funeral took place. Every time I reached inside myself to feel something, my hands came back to me emptier than before. I hated every song they played, I hated the makeup they caked on her to try and hide the fact that her face had settled in an awkward manner. I hated all of the people that turned up trying to stake their claim on some of the pain her death caused. They were all self-serving assholes. I got up and walked out mid-service when what was supposed to be a funeral for my cousin devolved into a warped sermon led by a man who couldn't stop saying that she was with God now. She was in a better place, smiling down on all of us. Nobody wanted to confront the looming elephant in the room that was the cause of her death.

I told Rob as much when he followed me to the courtyard to smoke a cigarette. "They're just trying to make peace with it in a way that makes sense to them."

"Its total bullshit! They have no right to try and tell us where she is now, or that she's happy, or okay, or "in a better place." I sure as fuck don't know where she is, but at least I'm not pretending I do like some kind of holy roller."

I shook my head, cool breeze blowing from the west, over the gravestones and through my hair. Looking at dead bodies is kind of like an out of body experience. They're laying there, all dolled up with their hands at their waist, clutching whatever obscure memorabilila the family saw fit to have them buried with, and there's this odd sense of calm. Not the good kind of calm, like just before a thunderstorm hits, or after you finish a good book; the kind of calm you feel when you're waiting for two cars to crash and they finally do. The person you knew and talked to and shared secrets with wasn't there anymore, and no matter how hard you tried, you would never know where they went. They're just gone. And when you drove away from the cemetery, and they were down there with all that dirt on top of them, you wouldn't be able to escape the feeling that you were leaving something behind that you would never see again.

Shortly afterward my parents told me that they were sending me to study abroad whether I liked it or not. I chose Japan, Robert chose the air force, and that was the end of that.

 

I wake up in a cold sweat and realize its still night time. I try to roll over to see where I am, but my body doesn't respond. Panic sets in as I try to move hands, fingers, toes, but none of it does any good. I try to form some kind of understandable words, but they come out strained and muffled, like I had a mouthful of oatmeal. _Shit_. I know what's happening, but knowing never makes it stop, it just makes being stuck in your own head without control of your body more terrifying. I've had sporadic episodes of sleep paralysis since I was 17 or 18, and they are often induced by stress, keeping odd hours, or sleeping in unfamiliar places. Check, check, and check. If only I was able to speak or move, I can get James to wake me up. When I'm having an episode I never know if what I'm doing is actually happening, or just playing out in my head, but it's worth a try.

I turn my head to the side and try to speak, but its too quiet, and no matter how hard I try, I can't force it out any louder. _Wait_. Something is wrong. The figure next to me is too small to be James and I think I can start to smell...flowers? Perfume? This doesn't make any sense. Then I see a figure moving toward the bed, and its me. I'm sitting down on the edge of the bed and pushing the figure I don't recognize. Shaking it. The other me is saying words that I can't hear. Then the sleeping body turns toward me, and its Ashley. Her face is wrong, just like the day I found her, eyes sunken, lips blue. She smiles and I can't breathe. I'm kicking, screaming, in my head but my body still won't move. The other me is crying, on the phone, and Ashley reaches out to lay a hand on my chest. Its hard, cold, like old wax. "Shhh, Lacie. I like it here. We're going to be alright."

I hear a shrill noise, like police sirens, and realize that its coming out of me. My eyes snap open and I search the room. I have no idea where I am and I can't stop screaming. Arms wrap around me from behind, drag me off the bed and I'm kicking with force, but my feet are tangled up in linen. "Shhhh, Lacie. Stop screaming, you're fine, we're fine, everything is fine."

The arms turn me around and James is staring at me, eyes wide but still emanating a sense of calm. I can't remember why I'm in his room, but I have to get out of here, get some place familiar. "I have to go."

I'm scrambling into the hallway and getting lost because I have no idea where I'm going. "Lace, what's wrong?"

"Don't call me that anymore," I mumble this over my shoulder, unsure if he actually heard me but not really giving a fuck, either. I'm back in the kitchen and I remember the coffee and crackers. I need to get my head on strait. James' bare feet come plodding behind me, and he's just as well dressed as I am. I'm coming down off of my terror high, which always happens in waves, but I still want to go home. Seeming to realize than I'm still not quite myself, James nods, and walks to a closet off-set of the dining room. He comes back in a pair of loose linen pants and a hoodie, and hands me a long jacket, which I take and proceed to bury myself in. I wish I hadn't, because it smells like him, and his sheets, and reminds me altogether of why I shouldn't be here.

"Come along. I'll take you home."

On the car ride I'm silent, distracted by a migraine and the passing streetlights. My own embarrassment is a part of why I don't attempt to participate in a conversation. I haven't had a sleep paralysis episode in years, and I hate trying to explain them to outsiders. James is calm and patient the entire time. Only when he pulls into the parking garage and kills the engine did he speak. "Only the most blessed of minds are privy to suffering that which others will never know comparison."

I'm curled in a ball in the passenger's seat as the overhead light dims and fades away. "You know, you don't have to try and make everything sound more interesting by using pretty words."

He chuckles, lays a hand on my leg, and I recoil because it gives me goosebumps reminiscent of our time in the hot tub. "'Course I do, kitten. What else am I good for?" I think I hear gum in his voice, but can't imagine him having time to stuff it in there between me in his bed and in his car. Ghost gum.

"There's nothing pretty about your cousin overdosing on heroine and slapping your aunt in the face before she spits on you for killing her daughter. Try and make that sound beautiful by talking in circles."

My voice is tired and scratchy, and I realize I have never felt older than I do at this moment. He's quiet, and its almost contemplative, as if he's thinking about actually trying to spin my shitty soap opera life into A-list golden silk threads. He probably can. I know he can. I almost want him to.

"You're the most irrevocably damaged and well put together human being I've ever met." I can see him smiling sadly in a sliver of moonlight through the window and I want to cry. Also, he is chewing gum. My hand is splayed over my face like a spider, and I'm fighting the tears not to fall. Daring them not to.

"Please just take me inside. And for the love of God, shut your mouth."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _He said to "be cool" but I'm already coolest. I said to “get real", “Don't you know who you're dealing with?_  
>  Um, do you think you'll buy me lots of diamonds?”

When we enter my unit, James sets my keys on the counter and removes his coat. I wouldn't let him take the hoodie when he tried, so he simply shrugged as I pad off to the bathroom to wash my face. When I emerge, he's standing with his hands in his pockets, staring out a window. I walk by him and casually tuck myself under the covers.

"You coming or not?" My voice is a whisper in the dark, and I still don't know if I want him in my bed but I know I'm still too shaken up to sleep by myself.

I feel him crawl in next to me. I sigh and he pulls me to his body carefully, as if afraid I'd break or lose my mind. God, but he smells so good. His silence is bugging me, but when I ask about it all he says is "You told me to shut my mouth, Kitten. I was just being polite."

"Do you take everything I say at face value?"

There's a breathy laugh, and then, "That's what you want, isn't it?"

I nuzzle myself as far into the crook of his neck as I can fit. I don't care if I can't breathe, I don't need to. All I need is to feel his skin, his pulse against mine. I don't realize my grasp around his waist has tightened, but he's pulling away, looking at me in the moonlight. "Hey, Lacie, I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you ask me to."

Then he kisses me, just a soft closed mouth pressure, and I'm pressing myself against him harder, opening my mouth and inviting him back in. I already miss the way he tastes. I arch my back, forcing my hips into his hands and against his groin. He groans into my mouth and pulls away again. I can feel him, swollen beneath his pants, so close to me and yet so much fabric separating us. "I don't want to take advantage of you, Kitten."

"Please, I'm fine. I wouldn't have let you in my house if I didn't trust you."

He kisses my collarbone, biting and sucking on the thin line of skin along the bone. He mumbles against my skin, "I don't want you to regret a night with me. When I have you, I want to know you want it."

I shiver and he turns me around so he can envelop me with his body. His erection in my back is a tease, but I know he's right. I was behaving on the instinct that any intimacy has to mean sex. It has for a long time, and it's a hard habit to break when nobody is willing to turn you down. "Sleep, Lace. You'll feel better in the morning.".

When I wake up James is gone, and my phone is howling at me.

"Yes?"

"So sorry Ms. Azalea, its Kerri."

"Okay."

"Um, well, its just that Mycroft Holmes' Gala is in a few weeks, and you haven't finalized the guest list."

I need to put together a list of the girls who will accompany me to the event, so that they can go over the dossiers and make necessary arrangements.

"Alright. I'll be at the office soon."

As I walk to my car, I wonder how James had gotten home, but quickly dismiss the thought. He has plenty of staff and cars at his disposal to come pick him up. Or there was always a Taxi. I snort, trying to imagine James, or even me, inside of a Taxi Cab.

When I open the door there's a bouquet of Chrysanthemums, my favorite, and a note. "Busy, busy, Kitten. Get to work."

How obtuse.

Dropping the flowers off with Kerri, I ask her to please find them a vase and some water.

Typing away at my computer; Ellie? No. Far too shy. Stefani, maybe? No, she slips up and drinks too much, and often. If the stories are to be believed, we'll need smart women to hold the interests of Mycroft and Sherlock. Most of my girls rely on their looks to get jobs, while brighter women who have a mind can certainly find profitable work elsewhere. It's too late to hire anyone new, so my options are limited.

Camille and Kirsten would do...maybe Stefani, if we're careful. I type in their names just as my desk phone rings. Goddamit.

"Hello."

"Lace, I have something to tell you."

Enough is enough. "Robert, I don't want to hear from you right now."

"No, Lace, listen. This is important. I've been doing some research."

"Oh, great. Go ahead and forward that to me on top of the hundred things I'm already doing today."

Not only am I doing party prep, ever since I had let Robert go, I'm having to deal with re-homing the disenfranchised girls by myself. I have a whole team of middle men to take care of the more dangerous details, but it's still a lot to have dumped on my plate during the busy season. At least I haven't encountered anymore ugly problems. I guess James' influence really is doing me some good.

"Lacie, you don't understand. Its about James."

My ears perk up at the name being said out loud. I'm sure the news is nothing I want to hear, especially coming from Robert. James is -1 in my radar right now, and so is Robert and his research. "Listen Robert, shoot me an email. Because I don't have time for this." Then I hang up.

The next week and a half went by quite quickly; probably because I've been up to my tits in preparations and work. I've made sure myself and all of my girls that are going to the Mycroft event are outfitted with brand new dresses and accessories. Most of which I will be billing to the host. I haven't heard from James, except for a text or two here and there. I'm sitting in my office, staring out the window and over the bleak city's landscape. It's gloomy and rainy, just shy of storming. I actually love bad weather, but it can become a problem for my expensive gowns and beloved shoes. Robert has been trying to reach me all week, but I am ignoring his calls like anorexia at a buffet. I delete every message before listening to it, and have instructed Kerri to do the same. I know she probably thinks I'm being cruel, but I've never cared what she thinks about my behavior and I'm not going to start now. My cell buzzes, and I check my texts, heart fluttering briefly when I see it's from James.

_Have you checked the lobby?_

The corners of my mouth twitch upward, and I reluctantly head toward my office door and out into the hall. Kerri looks up at me expectantly when I emerge around the corner. There isn't anything notable in the lobby, until I see a garment bag hanging off to the side of her desk. Walking over to it, I asked Kerri why she hadn't notified me of any deliveries.

 "Well, you told me not to disturb you until you were done planning for the party, and it was just your tailor that dropped it off. I didn't think it was important enough to make a bother."

 For the first time in a long time, I smile at her. "Thank you, Kerri. That will be all."

 She looks surprised, and confused. "What do you mean?"

 "Take the rest of the day off. Start your weekend early, Hm?"

Now she looks scared. This is probably the first time I've ever been so pleasant in her presence. Flustered, she gathers her things, nods at me politely, and scurries toward the door. I take the garment bag into my office, hanging it there, before carefully unzipping the matte vinyl to reveal a stunning gown I immediately recognize as a McQueen. I'm floored. No stranger to decadent designer clothing, I still can't believe my eyes. The bust and cropped sleeves are all gold and lace, with a dipping neckline. The bodice and skirt a beautiful black silk that would drape along my legs like dark chocolate. The silk looked so soft, I'm afraid it will melt if I so much as breathe on it.

Strutting back to my chair and falling into it gracefully, I reply to James.

  _It's stunning, thank you. I'm almost afraid to wear it._

Withing seconds, my phone goes off again.

  _A_ _ll the best for my Kitten._

Pursing my lips, I cross my legs a little tighter. His effect on me is just baffling, fed by our tryst in his hot tub, and him withholding himself from me under the pretense of chivalry. I want him, no doubt about that, but I'm still wary of what he wants from me. There's no possible way he's interested in an ongoing affair, he appears much too busy a man. It seems to me his need to disappear for business would be frequent. Then, I realize something disturbing. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the idea of him being absent for a long period of time. That is just shameful, and it makes me feel bad; weak. I'm a self-sufficient business woman, I don't need to get attached to anyone. I'm certainly too busy, but I hate to be alone, and that is a problem. He makes me feel safe and in danger at the same time. It's thrilling.

_What will you be wearing tomorrow?_

Of course James will be there. James is everywhere, always, in one way or another.

 _I_ _regret to inform you that I wont be in attendance. Physically, anyways._

Against my will my heart sinks, and at the same time I'm surprised. What possible reason can there be for him not to be at such a high profile affair?

_Why is that?_

There's not a reply for some time, and I glance longingly back at the dress hanging, fragile, from a hook across the room. I want him to see me wearing it. I want to see the look in his eyes when he lays them on me. I want to hear his breathing quicken while he takes it off.

_I wasn't invited. I'm on something of a blacklist in that particular circle._

I don't ask why, because I don't care to know. The less I know about his bad behavior, the better. All the better to hold me down.

_I guess you'll have to miss seeing me in that beautiful gown._

That's false, of course. He may not see me at the actual party, but he has eyes everywhere and there would be plenty of photos of me wearing it, in any case.

_I guess I'll just have to settle for what you're wearing now._

Rolling my eyes, I put my phone away and gather my things. I call the doorman up to carry my dress down to my car, tip him generously, and head home. The rhythmic sound of my wipers sliding lazily across my windshield is more soothing than any radio station. I have already made up my mind before I begin to ascend the stairs of my building and put my things up where they belonged. If he's going to miss seeing me in that dress, I'm going to make him pay for it. So I put on a pair of long, black, satin gloves that I planned on accessorizing my dress with tomorrow night, and nothing else. Then I set my phone's camera on a timer, and take a picture channeling Bettie Page, of one breast covered by the crook of my arm, and the other just barely covered by my hair. I'm feeling pleasantly smug as I hit send. I trust James not to share the photo with anyone enough to only panic briefly. It was vague enough that I could cry Photoshop if it ever got out, in true Hollywood starlet style. His reply comes almost immediately.

  _You have no idea how much trouble you're in._

 


	11. Chapter 11

The Gala is one of the grandest I've encountered in quite some time. Vases and planters of short lived, but no less lovely bouquets litter the walls and most walkways. Guests were announced upon arrival. There's an ice sculpture of a self important looking Scottish Terrier at the front of the dance floor. Waiters and waitresses are scurrying about in a tizzy, dropping off tiny little finger sandwiches and Mimosas cut with the finest of champagnes. I'm chatting with an old colleague in a gown no less lovely than my own, smiling and giggling like maidens.

"You really should have a word with Sherlock and his associate. I think they would rather like you."

I glance over my shoulder to my host, who is standing at attention with a grimace plastered across his pasty visage. His brother and company aren't far, but just far enough away from him as to avoid conversation. I've said my hellos to Mycroft, but haven't formally met his brother yet. He seems to be keeping him as far and away from most of the guests as possible, which I find a bit odd. I watch Ellie approach them to initiate polite conversation, and my back straitenes. 

"Come now, let me introduce you."

Shaking my head politely, I set my empty glass down on the gilded tray presented to me. "Maybe later, Angelica. Thank you."

She nods gracefully and is swept away by some faceless suitor of hers. My eyes once again fall on Ellie, keeping close watch. Everything seems to be just fine until I notice how red she is in the face. Sherlock's mouth is moving, and his colleague looks positively mortified.  _Shit._ Time for damage control, though I can't imagine what the problem could be.

My skirt swirls around my legs as I approach just in time for Ellie to burst into tears and turn around, flying down the stairs and nearly tripping over herself. I rush to her aid, producing a handkerchief and catching her in my arms, leading her away a bit to avoid a scene. She takes my kerchief and blots at her eyes while I ask what was wrong. "He, h-he said I was a whore, and that my lipstick went awful with my completion." 

She's nearly bawling. I take stock of her face; It is an unfortunate color, but no matter, that was an outrageously rude thing to say aloud. I place an arm around her shoulder and lead her toward the ladies' room. "Shh. Come, now, calm down. You look perfect."

I start rummaging through my handbag and produce a better shade of gloss, handing it to her. "Keep it. Now, go fix your face, darling. The show must go on."

She nods, nearly smiling, and goes on her way. I, on the other hand, am furious. Gathering myself, my heels snap across the floor as I all but fly in Sherlock's direction. He and his associate regard me as I approach, and my hand claps across his back as I lead him out of view of most of the public, his friend following idly behind, before yanking the drink he had in his hand out of it and dumping it into a planter. 

He doesn't seem surprised, or even perturbed, just mildly amused. He, like James, also has expressive eyebrows, preceding watery green eyes most would erroneously call blue. "Who, exactly do you think you are, that you have the right to insult a lady who was only politely doing her job?"

His friend jumps in, tries to save face for both of them. "I'm so, so sorry. He really has no idea he's being such an ass. I'm John Watson, I-"

I stare icily at him and his mouth immediately shuts. "I'm sorry, I don't remember asking you a question, and I'm certain this man can answer for himself."

He sinks back and looks at the floor, and I gaze expectantly back at the man himself, still waiting.

"I take it you don't want me to do you as well, then. Though that's all any of you wisps seem interested in."

It takes all I have not to slap his face, though I fear I'd cut my hand on his sickly, protruding cheekbones if I tried. "I didn't ask you to do anything, least of all me, and I'm certain I'm not interested. What I am interested in, is an apology for your rude behavior."

I can swear I see him roll his eyes. "Oh this is boring. Let's see, you're a call girl about-" he pauses to inspect my face. "five years past her prime with a sugar daddy who likes to see you in expensive things. Both of your ankles have been broken previously, making you prone to embarrassing falls. You manicurist is overcharging you, and you're a chain smoker, or at least you have been-"

The Watson man looks just as mortified as I feel, and I'm seething but my clean, clenched poker face never slips up as I let the offensive rant continue.

"Your wrists and mouth suggest that you-"

My hand claps hard across his face, and surprisingly, it did not bleed. Watson seems floored, though I'm sure he's no stranger to such displays occurring. Only a few heads turn, thankfully, and instead of angry, his brother seems amused.

"Ellie, in fact, is not, nor has she ever been a whore. She was a victim of human trafficking and now works for me, a woman who is being generously paid to provide company to bastards, apparently." 

Nodding at Watson politely, I make my way back toward the women's restroom leaving nothing but fury in my wake. He can say what he wants about me, but I'll be damned if he says another word about one of my girls.

After I'm done cooling my face with a washcloth, my bag vibrates. I'm still keeping my phone on me in case of emergency.

_Why so flustered, Kitten?_

I smile. He'd already heard, apparently.

_I think you know why. Does your blacklisting have anything to do with that arrogant bastard?_

I'm still reeling from the exchange. I can hardly believe such unbecoming behavior had occurred without consequence, aside from a few well deserved slaps on the face.

_A lady never tells. I'll tell you one thing though, Mr. Watson goes weak in the knees for a woman in charge. Give him a dance on me? Sherlock hates not being the center of attention._

I consider it. He is a guest, and had seemed pleasant enough. I feel quite sorry that he has to keep business with such an utter cock.

_Maybe I will. But you'll owe me._

I make my way toward the door when my phone buzzes a last time.

_Ah, but it's you who owe me. Consider us square, for now._

Rolling my eyes wide, I zip up my bag and saunter back toward the pair of men at the center of the room. Sherlock looks at me expectantly, almost as if he thinks he's the one in need of an apology. I breeze past him completely, not even entertaining his gaze, and nod to Watson, who looks just terrified. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I'm Ms. Azalea."

I hold out a hand and he takes it, glancing nervously at Sherlock.

"Oh, yes. I'm John Watson. I'm-"

"Nonsense. I'll hear nothing of it. Won't you treat me to a dance? I just love this song."

He looks so embarrassed as he glances down at the floor, face pink, while he pinching at one of his ears.

"I don't think, its just I'm- I have two left feet. I'm no good with dancing at all."

I take his arm in mine and lead him to the floor, gracefully. Turning, I place a hand on his shoulder, and guide one of his to my waist. He no longer looks flustered, but definitely uncomfortable.

"Don't worry, I'll lead. But just this once."

Infinitely relieved, we glide across the dance floor, and he manages not to step on my feet, thank god. Mycroft is regarding us with interest, and I stumble into John, glancing at Sherlock, who's just about to smirk at his correct prediction until he realizes I've done it on purpose. John held me up to him closer, afraid I'd falter again. I don't, of course, but his worry is charming. When we are done, I kiss him on the cheek, which is quite soft, and thank him for indulging me. He smiles, and it is the first one I'd seen from him. As always, I'm glad to leave a guest happy, especially when it serves me so.

Forgoing intermission snacks with my girls, I head for a door to the outside, even though I'm quite hungry. I count down from ten in my head and light my cigarette just as I hear the balcony door open, the heavy footfalls of a tall man coming up behind me. I'm not going to give him the courtesy of being the one to turn around. He isn't giving an inch, either.

"I don't apologize."

Turning around, still with high ground, I blow smoke into his face. He never moves. Not even a twitch. "Neither do I."

Gazing at him under my lashes, I inhale again, but he remains silent. Time to strike.

"As I'm sure you've already surmised, I'm not a call girl, I'm a businesswoman. My "sugar daddy" is my bank account, and yes, It does like to see me in expensive things. Only one of my ankles was broken, the other suffered a high sprain from my athletic days. This manicure is two weeks old, because I stay busy. Obviously, I smoke." I say, flinging my cigarette just shy of his shoes, which he steps on, defiantly.

"-but I never chain smoke in public. And the state of my mouth and wrists is nobody's business but mine."

Nodding politely, I breeze by him once more and head back inside. "Oh, and one more thing."

He looks at me expectantly, brows furrowed not in anger, but just a hint of distaste. "I always fall with purpose."

There are no sounds save for my heels tapping on concrete as I open the outer door. He never turned around.

 

When the party is over and the girls and I are headed toward the limo, a men-in-black look a like approaches me, hands me a note, nods, and walks briskly away. I keep the note folded in my hand until I'm alone in the limo on the way back to my apartment.

_Good show. It's not often I get the pleasure to witness my brother being put in his place without my involvement. Expect you and your ladies you be tipped very generously._

_-M. Holmes_

Usually I would be offended by the word "tip", but in this case I felt like I earned it and Ellie deserved it. The limo comes to a halt outside a building that is not my residence. I'm about to protest in annoyance, but catch myself. This had to be James' doing. The chauffeur comes around to open my door, and escorts me into the lobby of the Hotel Fairfax, a one of a kind, beautifully imposing building. I've only stayed here once, and my client picked up the bill. I can't imagine the cost of a stay here. 

The ceiling is high and expansive, with gold crown molding and a hand painted mural of Venus de Milo. It's breathtaking. I don't feel out of place, just a bit uncomfortable. It's late, and I'm not sure how my hair and makeup have fared the long night. I try not to look confused as I walk to the concierge's desk. She smiles wide and hands me an envelope with a number scrawled on it and a fancy keycard within. I thank her and head toward the luxury elevator. I glance at repeated versions of myself in the half wall length mirrors inside the elevator, soothed by the dings of each floor as they go by. From the looks of it, I was on my way to the top floor. _Penthouse?_ No. He can't possibly. 

The doors whoosh open and I realize he can. He definitely can possibly. Luke is posted outside the door in a lush armchair reading a copy of The National Geographic. I smile nervously while I key myself in; his expression never changes. It rarely does.

The penthouse is just as sinfully indulgent as one would imagine. There is a lovely sitting room with overstuffed chairs and a chaise lounge, a large wall length bookcase looming on the opposite wall. I wonder what sorts of books it contains. I compose myself and walk through the archway, and am greeted by a four post canopy bed done in royal blue and silver. All appliances and upholstery match. Two side tables, one with a phone and a guidebook of the amenities of the hotel and surrounding area. The other has an expensive shiny alarm clock and a vase of Cala Lillies. 

There aren't many things I'm superstitious about, but flowers are one of them. Sure, Chrysanthemums are my favorite and also a bad omen, depending on who you ask, but I always just wrote it off as my reverse luck. Calla Lillies, I have never liked. They make me uneasy. They allegedly foretold of doomed beauty. Shaking it off, I glance around the corner at the kitchenette, and then move over to the bathroom. James is nowhere to be found. I walk back into the bedroom and notice a note poking out from the bedside vase. I snatch it up, careful not to touch the vase itself, and unfold the stiff stationary.

_Some urgent business demanded my attention. Don't change out of that dress._

_\- James_

I wonder what kind of "business" could have possibly needed his attention late on a Saturday night. Oh well. None of my concern. I don't want to know. All the better. I ring room service and order a chilled bottle of champagne to ease my wait.

I turn the TV onto some late night Lifetime movie, and immediately switch channels. Those bundles of cliche melodrama always hit embarrassingly close to home. I find my unfinished pack of cigarettes from our last meeting out on the veranda, and light one, sipping at the delicate flute in my hand. It had indeed been an engaging night, to say the least. I'd been waiting at least an hour, so I wander inside and look through the volumes on the bookshelf in the sitting room. I choose am anthology of horror stories and urban legends. I've always loved a good scare, but can never figure out if I really believe in the paranormal. I feel that discounting it would be losing one of those wonderful childlike beliefs that keeps my mind fresh. It was one thing I had left. I couldn't let it go.

I've just finished a short story about a haunted hotel room, and had masochistically braved through it. I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray when I hear the room's door click open and set the book down, happy to reenter air conditioned bliss. It's much too muggy this evening. James is a vision, as always, taking off his linen jacket and discarding it. His presence never fails to light up a room. He gazes at the dress and gives me a good old once over, smiling happily.

"Just, perfect."

I return his smile and pour him a glass. "Business went well, I assume?" Shouldn't it always? For him? Such a smooth operator.

His face falls for just a split second, but I catch it, barely. I always do. "It didn't, at all, actually."

It's my face's turn to fall. Again, only momentarily.

"But no matter. This night is about you. You've done so well, Lacie Sweet."

Taking a sip from my glass, I pause. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He just holds his hands up and grins, like a director pleased with his lead ingenue. Then it hits me, that that's what I have been. This whole thing had been predetermined. I fleetingly wonder if he'd gotten me invited somehow on purpose, if he indeed was blacklisted, or somehow still had sway over the decision. I realize I should be angry, furious, even, but I can't decide how I feel at all. I have never been orchestrated before, at least not in my adult life. I am always the conductor of my own life, always in as much control as one could possibly be about its events. Maybe I needed the break. It had certainly been a lot of fun; I felt like I was a part of a personal private joke with James, a joke no one else was privy to, and it was a little thrilling.

Understanding flashes across his features and makes him smile wider. He knows I'm in on it now. Presumptuous, smug, maniacal.

He closes the space between us, running his hands down my arms, feeling the silk gloves against his skin. I bristle, goosebumps pulling a hostile takeover of my body. James was a hostile takeover of the most powerful kind. He moves them back up to caress my shoulders, pushing the silk against my skin along the way. They move ever so slowly from my shoulders, cradling my neck with one, with the other finding refuge in my hair. He stops then, face hovering just inches from my own, and whispers, "Now lets get you out of this dress."

Zero to undone in 3.5.


	12. Chapter 12

James spins me around and I demurely hold my hair up while he unclasps and pulls down the top of my dress. I shiver as his fingertips skim along my right shoulder. "All marked up, huh? You're a regular ner'do well."

I sigh. "I had it done right after my cousin died. Still in the middle of my rebellious phase."

"I see. Every creature on this earth dies alone. Very poignant."

He carefully pulls the dress down over my wide hips. "Yeah. I thought so."

When the fabric is pooled at my feet, I step out of it, clad only in my lingerie set. I turn around and shiver, cradling my glove covered arms to my chest. Hotels are always a lovely temperature. I think I see James shiver, too, but his eyes are all predatory. He inches slowly toward me, and I place my hands on his shoulders. He's wearing entirely too many articles of clothing. His lips hungrily crash into mine and I can taste the peppermint. The kiss turns desperate, and Christ, I've missed his mouth. I pull his jacket off and begin undoing his tie, not caring if I'm rumpling the delicate fabric. The silver embossed clasp clinks as it hits the floor, and I nip impatiently at his swollen lower lip. He growls, stepping back to unbutton his shirt. I rake my nails angrily down his chest. I've been waiting to mar his unblemished milk-pale skin for a long time.

I'm still in my heels and stockings when he pushes me toward the bed, knees buckling me backwards as they make contact with the edge. He is now towering over me, staring down at me, eyes dark, breathing hard. I work his belt off and push his trousers down his toned legs and onto the floor. He kicks his shoes off, and I begin trying to get his briefs down when he pushes me back. God, I want this so badly. Everything about him is so intoxicating; a part of me knew it would come to this from the moment we met. A part of me remembers wanting to see him bare, raw, in front of me. Out of that suit, past the games, past the gum he hid behind. 

He has my hands pinned over my head, forcing his chest and groin into mine. My hips buck in kind, and I mew, struggling against his grasp while his mouth and teeth mark my neck, jaw, collar. It's almost too much. A lot of people don't appreciate the delicious hunger building up from a good grind. He is getting so hard, and I know I'm just as wet as the Sienne in spring.

I manage to wiggle one of my wrists free and he doesn't follow it. Finding his thick warmth, I cup his impressive length, squeezing and massaging him just so. He started making noises just short of moans, and I love the sounds. Love them. Then he yanks my body down, knees locking against my hips, and begins to pull my bra away from my shoulders. He lets out a soft "hmm" when I'm finally bare before him. I've never been proud of my breasts, but I know they're lovely, at least.

His fingers push my panties aside, summoning a gasp out of my lungs. He's sliding them across my folds now, warmly chuckling as I struggle beneath him.  He presses one finger in, then two, and my pussy remembers them fondly. One of my arms springs up, pushing against his clavicle, pawing at his skin while he's curling his fingers slowly. I want to move, but his knees are pinning my body down too tightly. I don't want to come like this, I want him to be inside me, for the first time. I want to come around him and scream his name a thousand times.

Pleased with his teasing, he moves down, releasing my hips, and pulls my underwear off without even rumpling my stockings. Pushing myself up, I clap my arms around his neck, kissing him so hard our teeth meet. He's pushing me downward again, and I sigh when my head hits the fluffy pillow. I love this fucking hotel. When I reach upward to pull his underwear down to his knees, I try not to be rude by gasping in surprise.  _Shit_. I might be in trouble. I have been far too underestimative about his size to body comparison, which is embarrassing, because my spacial awareness is usually on point. He's smiling that awful smug smile, and moves to get rid of his briefs, adding them to the pitiful heap on the floor aside the bed.

When he pushes his body lower, I revel in the heat. I can feel him grinning into my ear as he speaks softly, "Remember when I said we would only be together like this if I knew you wanted it? Now would be a good time to make that clear."

I really can't take this grandstanding, but relent. "Fuck, James. I want you so badly. Please."

He growls and presses himself closer to my center with his hand. I gasp, held in place by a feeling reminiscent of electricity shocking its way up my spine and through all my most sensitive nerve endings. I'm so ready for him, I need him so badly. The safety, the warmth; I'll take it, games and all. I don't care, I'm too far gone now.

He pushes his way into me slowly, and I feel my lower body clench painfully. He's breathing heavily but keeps going, inch by inch, stretching me to fit around him. I'm chirping loudly until he crashes as far as he can possibly go, and then a pain filled moan is tearing out of my throat. I'm panting and he's waiting inside of me, waiting for my body to adjust. I can already feel the sweat pooling at the dip of my sternum. "I'm going to take you low and slow love, because I want to enjoy this. I want to remember it for years, when I'm old and it wakes me in the night, and I want to think of you body as I make myself come without you."

I nod and push my hips closer. I want to remember this too, for as long as I can remember anything. He forces himself in again, slowly, and my arms are clenching tightly around his narrow shoulders. He groans, making the most lovely noises, and my eyes are as far back in my head as they will go. His rhythm is so slow that it's almost painful, but I know better than to try to speed him up, not that I would want to. Our bodies are so close, I can feel the soft hair above his groin brushing against my belly button, and I can't remember the last time someone has fucked me this way, so slow, so intense. "James, James, ah!"

I can feel my pleasure building, building, going up higher and higher, as he increases his pace ever so slightly. "I can't fuck you like I would fuck a whore, Lace. I want you to be able to feel me inside of you. I want you to- ah, feel it." He's humming now, a tune only he knows the words to, and I feel myself crash over the edge; seeing stars, head thrown back, wanting to bite down on something to quell my cries. I continue on in hard and soft waves, and he seems to know the frequency my body is on, because he keeps going in perfect time with them as they push me down and pull me back up again and again. "Mmm, where do you want me to come, babydoll?"

I can hardly breathe, let alone speak, but I do my best, motioning to the bedside table. Of course I want him to come inside of me, it won't be fair if he doesn't, and I want to feel it just as much as he does. He smiles, kissing my lips lightly, and skillfully unwraps a non-latex condom. Thank Christ.

Then he flips me onto my side, placing his knees on either side of me, and has one of my legs propped up over his shoulder. When he slides in this time I cry out so loudly it reverberates as high as the ceiling will let it. I've never been taken like this before, and his cock hit all the right pressure points. He's going faster now, gasping and moaning lightly. I move my fist into my mouth, gripping it with teeth, hoping my skin wouldn't break through the glove. The pressure in my thighs is building again, and when I come this time, it's different than the first. It's shaking me and makes me scream, cry out in fragments that rip through my throat. I hear James' ministrations deepen as they became more frequent, then his hips crash into me so hard I know I'll bruise. I don't care. A few more crashes and I feel him pulsing inside of me, and it's just so fucking indulgent I can almost taste it. No, that's just the blood on my lips from biting down so hard. When he pulls away I almost whimper.

I'm seeing stars, spots, crosses, pearls, you name it, and am trying harder to catch my breath than I have in years. When he returns to me, I feel myself looking at him like a Deity I've just discovered I can worship, happily, for the rest of my life. He kisses me, swirling his tongue over my wounded lips, and I love the taste of copper on his tongue inside my mouth. He's nuzzling deeply into the crook of my neck, and I almost can't understand what he's saying. "Christ in Heaven, Lace, you're so perfect. I can't remember the last time I came so hard. Divine."

I laugh, finally coming down from my personal clouds. "I can't either."

My voice is scratchy, and I'm finally hit with how thirsty I actually am. James must feel similar, because he's pushing me toward the edge of the bed, suggesting we get "re-hydrated," though I'm sure he doesn't mean with water. I don't care what it is, as long as it's cold, and will feel good going down.

After I'm done washing up, I change out of my other clothing, and wrap myself up in the most comfortable robe ever, and I've had a lot of experience with robes. James is waiting on the balcony, smoking next to a new bottle of champagne in a chilled bucket. He's already poured me a glass. We sit silently for a long time, smoking, feeling the cool liquid slide down our throats, gathering our thoughts.

"I'm quite speechless, for once, Kitten. Than doesn't happen oft'."

I set my glass down and snuggle deeper into my chair. "I'm definitely aware of that."

He's looking at me now, almost sadly. I can't imagine what he's thinking. I'm still not sure what I'm thinking. Am I going to regret this? Probably. I have that feeling after you wake up hungover, your serotonin depleted because the alcohol's used it all up, rudely. That feeling you get when you call an ex, drunk, leave them an angry, longing message. I know it will all come back into focus, later, and I'll feel like so much shit. I don't feel used, he's made me feel like a goddamn princess. I just feel, forlorn. I don't want this to end, for any reason, but it will at some point. It certainly will.

"You're the kind of woman..." He trails off, and I gaze at him, face in hand, staring from under my marred, clumpy lashes. I'm feeling insecure. He runs a hand through his haphazard hair, over his forehead, pinches the bridge of his nose, like he always does when he wants me to understand something only he really can, at least in his own head. "You're the kind of woman I'd burn for. I'd burn, and burn, and I'd want you to be there to see it. I would want to watch you want to put me out, but you wont, you can't, you can't. I could never ask you to do that."

His voice is so soft, it's almost a whisper, and it's making me sad. "James, I-"

"Please don't."

I can't ever remember him saying that word to me. I've said it plenty, but I get the feeling it's not a pleasantry he uses very often. Then he sighs so deep, I think his lungs will burst. His eyes meet mine, and I begin to think he could almost cry.

"I'm such a fucking bastard."

He says the words like it's not something he thinks often, or at least thinks of in the derogatory sense. Like he's truly cursing himself for something he actually regrets. I want to say something, to console him, but that's not what he wants, he's made that clear. I just keep looking at him, and he keeps looking up at the moon, searching, like he does everything. Looking for patterns, answers, depth, light.

I reach my hand out, and he relents one, allowing me to stroke his knuckles with my thumb. He's still not looking at me. "James."

He's turning now, and the pitiful faces he's worn in the past few minutes are really tearing me up, but I don't know why. Is he torn up, when I'm sad? When I'm unsure of myself? When I'm searching for answers? My heart is still sinking, my senses are tingling. Something is really wrong. Things are moving, changing, rearranging, irrevocably. I hope they never catch up with me. I've run away from them as far as I can. Then I decide to say the only thing I can think that makes sense, only realizing as the words tumble from my lips that they are definitely, painfully true.

"I'd watch you burn, James."


	13. Chapter 13

The next few weeks have been some of the most carefree and decadent I've ever experienced. Engaging text debates sprinkled with our sometimes silly, sometimes sexual repartee. Stays at luxury hotels in various cities; I insisted we stay close by. I'm just not comfortable leaving my business too far behind. Paranoid? Maybe. But I'd rather be safe than sorry any day. We had long conversations about literature, films, hobbies, we just talked and talked. I loved it. We had a particularly long conversation about the relationship of Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling in Harris' novels, which have always been some of my favorite. The sex is always fantastic, sometimes we go slow, like the first time, enjoying the feeling of our bodies invading each other. Sometimes it's fast and intense, and we actually had to set rules about where no marks are allowed to show. I've finally been able to relax in a way I almost can't remember. To let go of the day to day and just, lose myself. There is worry niggling at the back of my mind though, as always. That's just it, I'm losing myself in James, and that's so dangerous. I can smell him when we're not together, taste him sometimes. It's thrilling and unsettling. So yeah, I'm a bit uneasy.

Surprise gifts and notes pop up sporadically, often coinciding with myself having a particularly stressful day. Another one of new girls has gone missing, and without leaving a note. She also hasn't turned up dead, and my inside sources haven't reported seeing her on the street. Her having not left a note leads me to believe she really had run away of her own accord; usually when the traffickers abduct a girl, they always leave a phony note to throw us off the trail. Then again, maybe they were getting smart and switching it up. Oh well, nothing I can do about it with no news to go on.

My cell phone buzzes on the corner of my desk, and I answer it without looking to see who was calling, eyes never leaving the work on my computer screen. "Hello?"

"Well hello, Kitten."

I blush, and long ago stopped being ashamed of the effect just his voice can have on me purring through wharever receiver that happens to be separating us.

"To what do I owe the pleasure? Its only been," I check the time in the corner of my desktop. "8 hours since we saw each other."

"So it has. I'm afraid this isn't a call of pleasurable means, however."

I swallow, and a thick silence hangs empty in the air. I wait for him to continue, but realize he's probably giving me time to do the same. I try counting backwards and exuding calm in my voice, but I'm not sure it works.

"Oh? That's unusual. Do tell."

There's a noise muffling his side of the speaker, and I hear him speaking softly to someone. Isn't he aware that most modern phones come equipped with a mute button? Just as well, but I still can't make out what he says.

"I'd really rather speak to you about it in person. How about we go to the winery you love out in the country?"

My voice darkens along with my thoughts. Nothing good ever comes of someone refusing to break bad news to you over the phone. "Why don't you stop being obtuse and answer the question? You know how much I hate surprises."

Silence again, and a sigh. I don't hear any gum, and don't know if that's a good or bad sign. He sighs, and I can just picture the look on his face; weary and exacerbated. He sounds far too tired to be irritated, even playfully so. "I'm going to be gone for a spell. Have something that needs taking care of."

There is no emotion in the statement, it just leaves his body as if it were the same as simply breathing. I find it a touch disturbing. I've never heard his voice go lilt-less before. I know better than to ask any more questions. "What kind of business? Where are you going? For how long?" If telling me is in his master plan, then he'll do it with or without me wasting both of our time. My voice is soft when I ask, "When do you want me to meet you?"

"I'll pick you up at 8."

I look at the clock again. I have just enough time to leave the office, go home, and get ready, if traffic permits. "I'd really rather take my own car."

"No. Please don't argue with me. I'll see you at 8."

We say our goodbyes, and I'm trying to calm myself as I gather my things and wave to Kerri on my way out. I hate the sinking feeling of dread that makes a home in the pit of your stomach when you know something unpleasant is about to take place. I've felt it so many times before. I pull out onto the highway, palming my chin in one hand and driving with the other. If James is just going out on run-of-the-mill business, he wouldn't have sounded so gravely tired, and he wouldn't have insisted we meet to speak about it. If it's just an ordinary thing, then what's wrong with telling me about over the phone? I would have accepted an abridged version. There's something else though, too. I've gotten so used to having James around that I'm also dreading how long he's going to be away. I hate this shit. Why couldn't I have just kept my distance like always, operating alone, as I always have, instead of breaking, no, barreling through all of my well constructed rules and ordinances to become involved in this man's complicated, jet-setter life? 

I knew something like this was going to happen at some point. As I take the elevator up to my floor, I begin to try and talk myself out of all the worry. It's probably not that bad. You're going to feel silly that you wasted time being so stressed when its just going to be some trivial thing. Besides, what do I care if he's going to be away for a while? I've been alone half my life, and have never been particularly unhappy about it. I'll continue to be fine without him.

I pull on a dark, above the knee cotton dress and some knee high suede boots, tying my hair back up into a messy bun. I even skimp on makeup. I'm not going to get prettied up for him, because this isn't a big deal. Hell, maybe him going away is a blessing. I can finally get back to focusing on work 100%, and stop having to worry about clients finding out I'm having an affair with one of their ilk without charging. When he leaves, everything will go back to normal, and that will be that, right?

I grab my purse and put on a short leather jacket over my dress before locking up and go to wait for the car in the front of my building. He arrives in my favorite automobile in his repotoire, causing my stomach to sink further. It's a sleek, black, super-charged Jag. We'd had a long conversation about cars one afternoon over mimosas and an enormous swimming pool. Which ones we liked, which ones were both functional and beautiful, which ones weren't worth the fact that they happened to be aesthetically pleasing. I don't know a whole lot about them, but I know what I like to look at, and I'm learning more, at any rate.

Luke holds my door open for me and I thank him, sliding noisily into the leather interior. James already has a drink in his hand, and doesn't say anything while I buckle myself in, so I don't either. If he doesn't want to say anything, then I don't want to hear anything, either. I hope I can keep pretending that's true for the car ride. It takes about 45 minutes to get to the winery in question, and it's looking like it is going to be very uncomfortable. I'm staring out the window with my lips set in a strait line when I feel James wrap his hand over mine, across my knuckles. I steal a glance in his direction, and he's still not looking at me, but he squeezes my hand lightly, making my pulse jump against my neck. He has small hands, but they still swallow mine whole. I know if I say anything the moment will break, and I'm not quite sure I want it to. Why do I feel like a couple who've just had a huge fight, and are trying to be civil to avoid more squabbling, the kind of awkward forced civility only couples can provide each other.

When we arrive, James offers me a hand out of the car, and I take it, letting him lead me down to the terrace just on a small lake. The winery's property is beautiful, with wrought iron lawn furniture spread far enough apart to make it seem larger than it is. The building itself has two porch swings on either side of the door.

James orders a cheese plate, a bottle of Watermelon Chianti for me, and a Malbec for himself. When it comes to wines, he likes them very dry, and I prefer light, fruity ones. I'll abide by fancy reds when I have to, but have never been able to grasp why so many people will drink them at all. I can't stand the way they make the inside of my mouth feel.

We've got our glasses, and I ignore the cheese plate to light a cigarette, while James shoves a wedge of goat's cheese in his mouth. I'm halfway through my cigarette and nearly as far down on my wine, when he finally speaks, and I'm glad because the atmosphere has become this side of too uncomfortable. We haven't spoken in an hour.

"Sorry I've been so unbecoming this evening, I'm just not in the best mood." He grabs for a cracker now, taking a few small bites before abandoning it, then takes a large drink of wine. 

"Its alright. Everyone has a right to be tired."

He nods, grabbing for a cigarette of his own. "You know, I have greatly enjoyed our time together. I haven't been this pleasantly distracted for a very long time."

My heart sinks. I know the catch is coming soon, I just have no idea what it is. I hate his tone, because I can't read it, and I can't stand going into situations like these blind. "I feel that way too. I can't remember the last time I was able to talk to someone who is interested in the certain things on the same level as I am, and its probably been even longer since I knew someone who could mentally engage me, the way that you do. No one in my life is willing to so much as argues with me, let alone attempt to have an actual debate."

I see him smile then, but I'm not relieved. It looks miserable on his naturally beautiful face. 

"That's because no one in your life is half as smart as you, and you wouldn't want them to try and have a debate with you if they tried, because it would be pointless. Believe me, I know."

I think about that a moment, both pleased and a little disappointed that deep down, I know he is right. He's silent again for some time, and finally I give up. I don't want to be here all night, as much as I love the place. "James, just tell me what you need to say. Stalling won't make it go away."

I can't believe I'm giving that kind of advice to him when it's one of my own flaws, and has been all my life. I give great advice, I just don't know how to read it in my own handwriting. He pours us both another glass, and I know just by looking that there's probably only one left in each bottle. The local made wines are always stronger than store bought, but being drunk on wine always warmed and calmed me in a way other alcohol could not. Maybe that's why he brought me here. "I'm going to be away, busy, for a month, maybe more. I'm not sure how long cleaning up this mess is going to take yet."

So it was a mess he needed to take care of. I find myself wondering what happened that has him so upset, but know better than to ask. If he plans on telling me, he will. What kind of mess takes a month or more to clean up? I know he's got his hands in a little bit of everything, but he told me himself he rarely makes personal appearances anymore. The fact that he said he'll be gone for so long still hasn't fully hit me, and I don't want it to.

He's looking at me now, and the moonlight catches his eyes and turns them honey brown, like I almost never see them. I've become less and less disappointed by their actual color than I initially had been in the time I've spent looking into them.

"I just need you to know that it pains me to leave you, not just because I enjoy you so very much, but I don't like being away from someone I've promised my protection. Not at all."

I'm flip flopping between misery and joy. I need him to not keep telling me how he feels about me, especially when he's about to leave, and because I will be forced to have to figure out how I feel about him. This cannot be happening right now. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to need anyone ever again, least of all a man, but a part of me knows that thought is absurd. Finally, I think of something to say. "James, this is silly. You don't need to worry about me like this. This is your job, your life. Don't let me interrupt it. We got along fine without each other, and sure, we've had a lot of fun-"

He cuts me off, "You're very valuable to me, Lacie. Don't try to boil our time together down to granules, that's usually my job."

His words sting, not only because I know they're true, but because I didn't expect him to actually call me on it. So of course, I revert to defending myself with irritation. "Oh, so just because its not you in control of the situation for once, I don't have the right to say anything about it? That's so insulting."

He opens his his mouth as if he has something to say, shuts it, and catches me completely off guard by reaching across the table for my face, bringing it to his and crushing my lips with his own. At first I'm still with surprise, but soon found myself melting into him, my hands raising up to cover his own resting on my cheeks. The kiss was growing more impatient, and his tongue is invading my small mouth like warm silk. I make a small noise, and suddenly wish there wasn't a table and breakable objects between us. We continue to fight each other, and I feel like he's not just kissing me, he's searching. Searching for answers to so many questions, and I'm not entirely sure either of us know what the are. My heart is still hammering against my rib-cage when he pulls away, hands still clutching at my cheekbones, eyes focused on mine, pupils blown. I can't imagine mine look much different. He's breathing, heavy, almost choking with intensity, and I know, I just know he has something else to say. He's hiding something from me, I know it. This isn't just about business or about leaving me, it has to be about something more. I'm scared to wonder what. God, I'm so lost. My normally straight and thick boundaries have been blurred by whatever it is that I feel for this man, and I hate it.

My eyes are wide, and I know the fear I felt is radiating off of my face. What the fuck is going on? Gaze still locked with his, I say, "James, please tell me what's really going on."

He's shaking his head now, removes his hands from my face, and my expression never changes. "I really can't. Its not something- things have gotten out of hand, Lacie, and the less you know about it, the better."

He's gulping the last of his wine like a man who hasn't had a drop to drink in weeks. I glance at mine longingly, but won't give in until I know for certain what's happening. "James, you know I wouldn't ask if I didn't think I needed to know."

His face has gone hard, but soft at the same time. When he speaks I remember the voice I heard on the phone earlier today, not quite human enough to be coming from a man. "I never should have involved myself in your affairs. I knew it would draw unwanted attention to you, but I did it anyways, because of how drawn I am to you. I'm so, so drawn to you, but I shouldn't have broken the rules."

I follow his lead and drink the rest of my wine before responding, because I'm mad, and that feels better than being lost. "You're not the only one who's broken rules, James. Do you have any idea what I've risked by becoming involved with you? What is at stake, for me? Do you?"

He nods, sadly, and I realize that I'm really not going to get anything out of him, at least not right now. He's said all he's willing to say. We've hit a stalemate for the record books.

 

We're in the car on the way back to the apartment, and neither of us has said anything since we left the winery. The silence isn't empty or awkward this time though, or if it is, I don't notice, because my mind is racing and I'm doing a poor job of remedying it. I feel stupid, because I know there's something I don't know about all of this that I should. I'm worried, because I know it must be bad, I just don't know what it is yet. Was James in trouble, and had he, by proxy, put me in danger? Does it have to do with the Trafficking Ring, because God as my witness I will tear all of those good for nothing, brain dead assholes to pieces if that is what this is. I have never been more tired with that whole ordeal than I am at this moment. I should have never stuck my nose where it didn't belong. There's a pang of guilt when I remember that's not really true. It may have been a hassle, hell, more than a fucking hassle, and though I know I can't save them all, I also know that I was able to change the lives of some of those women for the better, and that makes it all feel justified. I have to tackle my problems as they fly at me, not premeditate them until they make me sick to my stomach anymore. At least all of my worrying earlier in the day hadn't gone to waste. Now that that half was settled, the other parts of what is wrong decide to make themselves known, and I feel sick all over again. I need to come to terms that I care-no, that I am fond of James, in a way. On some level. Oh Goddammit, who am I kidding? He swept me off my feet and I fell for it, now things are fucked up and I feel like shit because I have no idea what's going to happen. Where do we stand? What's going to happen while he's away, will we have contact at all? Will we pick up where the affair left off when he comes back? Do I even want to? Does he?

God, but my head hurts. I have to simplify it. Have to break it all down and compartmentalize. I can't keep pouring over the pages until the words are illegible and I tear my hair out. Okay. James is going away, and that makes me feel bad, because I enjoy his company, and his mouth, and his body; Okay, focus. It also makes me feel shitty because I used to like being alone, and I've gotten used too used to his company. I don't know where he's going or what he's going to do, but I know its not going to be pretty. I know it has something to do with me, either directly or indirectly, and James feels guilty about that. I want to know what it has to do with me, but I'm going to have to table it for now, because James says its too dangerous. Christ, that part sounds like a shitty made for TV movie. Criminal meets Girl, Criminal falls for Girl, Criminal has to protect Girl from the Big Bad Wolf by leaving her in the dark so he can ride off and save the day while she sits in a castle knitting scarves and baking cakes. So fucking cliche, so not my way. I know everything about the goings on in my own life, and that doesn't need to change now.

James tries to open the door of my building for me, but my boots thud ahead of him and I breeze inside and to the stairs. I don't feel like waiting awkwardly for the elevator to come down, and besides, the feeling of running makes me feel a little better, at least for now. James is keeping pace, which is impressive, in his tightly tailored suit and dress shoes, but at least he's smart enough not to try and pass me. When we reach the door to my unit, I spin around to face him, breathing heavy, face red, and his body doesn't seem to be as bothered by the climb as mine is. He's just staring down at me, waiting for whatever comes next. I'm having trouble slowing my breathing down enough to speak without gasping between every few words.

"James, you have to tell me what's going on. You are insulting me by keeping me in the dark, don't you realize that? You don't get to just take the damned wheel in my life because you offered to help me, and now you think its too dangerous."

I'm breathless again and he looks away, down at the carpet, up at the ceiling, down at me again. What he's thinking, I can't say, but he's thinking something, face still neutral, rendering it less striking, less beautiful. "I'm not doing this to protect you like some kind of princess in a story book, Lacie. This isn't a _STORY_ , this is _REAL LIFE_."

I take a step back, mouth open, until my back hits the door to my condo. He's never yelled at me before, not once, and I don't like it at all. His face just goes so, _ugly_ when he screams like that. It's only for an instant, but no less noticeable. He's moving toward me, moving so close that I'm forced to press my back as far as I can against the door so he won't knock me over.

"No one is in complete control of their own lives, Kitten, not even me. There will always be forces at work that you will never understand. Letting those things do their job isn't a sign of weakness, you stubborn little girl. Letting me help you isn't a sign of weakness." The last part is nothing more than a whisper, and he lays his head against the wood of my door above my own. I'm looking up at him, but his eyes are squeezed shut. I reach upward, closing the space between his cheeks and my hands, but his eyes don't move. It almost sounds like he's humming. I take a breath, finally able to talk reasonably again. "I don't want you to leave right now."

His eyes open now, and he moves as if to kiss me, but instead gathers me into his arms and presses his nose as far as it will go into the collar of my jacket, taking long, measured breaths. "I'm not going anywhere without you, tonight. I promise."

 


	14. Chapter 14

We forgo all formalities once we're through the door and it 's shut behind us. I'm on my tiptoes, trying to reach him, but he pulls me into his arms, hands cupping my ass, and I'm forced to wrap my legs around his waist so I don't fall. I don't hesitate, immediately finding his soft mouth with mine. It's not a patient kiss, its aggressive and impatient, mirroring the one we shared at the winery. I want to crawl into his body through his mouth and stay there. I never want to leave. Teeth are catching lips, tongues are fighting for dominance, and I'm down on my sofa before I even know we've moved. He's so heavy on top of me but it feels good, so I don't fight him. I let his hands move up my thighs, under my dress, straining the fabric to reach my breasts. We've had sex like this before, but he's so much more insistent than I've ever experienced. It feels like he can read my mind, is also trying to crawl inside of me and I know its because he's leaving. 

_He's leaving._

I don't want the thought to give me pause, but it does. James is having none of it though, and he's pulling my dress over my head, I'm unzipping my boots, he's throwing his clothes away like they're on fire. Once his chest is bare, I attach myself to it, clawing, kissing, gnawing. He's breathing like a deer running from its predator and shoves me down; my head hits the arm rest so hard it hurts my neck. He's invading my mouth again, grinding against me full force. I cry out, and it reverberates against the ceiling of my living room. James growls and pulls my panties down, discarding them across the room. He presses down on me again, and before I realize what's come over me I slap him hard, and his mouth is that perfect  _O_ again, if not a bit more ragged. If he's leaving, If he's not telling me why when I deserve to know, I'm going to make him pay for it. With a strength I'm not aware I possess, I push him off of me and onto his back, coming down and pinning his legs with my own on either side. He's got this astounded look on his face, and I love it. I'm sitting up strait, and he's looking up at me like I'm his God, like I'm a Christmas Tree and he's a small child, frozen in awe by the beauty of the object. Leaning forward, My hands are running up my skin and over my breasts, pushing them together, and with my hips, I'm sliding his length between my folds, teasing him like he loves to tease me. His head's fallen back and he's moaning, eyes closed and fluttering. He's so hard it feels like he's going to burst, and I tease him just a few more moments, honing my own control, because it feels so good for me too, it's hard to hold back. 

James makes the decision for me, taking my hips in his hands and pushing them back and downward, forcing himself into me at and angle. All of a sudden I can't hear anything, my ears are ringing because it hurts, he's filling me up just like he always does, and despite the pain it feels so good. He's guiding my hips slowly, with purpose, until my mind clears and I steady myself by placing my hands at his collar, just shy of wrapping around his throat; just this side of a threat. If the look on his face is anything to go by, he loves it, and I momentarily relinquish my grasp to slap his hands away from my hips so I can lead on my own. "Don't touch me with your hands again. You've lost that privilege."

My voice is a growl, and I almost don't recognize it myself. He doesn't say anything, so I stop moving my hips and clutch his chin in one hand so hard it shakes. "Did I hear an answer?"

His eyes are wide and he nods, "Yes," repeating it over and over, now in time with my movements as I ride him hard and fast. I've always loved being on top, and have no idea why we've never tried it before. It's so easy for me to come without hands because the angle and the friction fit together like pieces of a sinful puzzle. I'm finding my rhythm, pressing harder and harder into his upper chest, pressing my groin into his navel and grinding until I start to feel my body respond, getting higher and higher on the feeling, when James forgets himself and slips a hand up to cup one of my breasts instinctively. I slap him again, harder than the first time, not just because he broke the rules, but because he halted my build up. I'll have to start all over again now. His head hasn't moved from the side where it flew after I hit him, and I'm afraid for a second I may have hurt him, but I know better. He wouldn't have let me slap him the first time if he hadn't done this before. There's a bit of blood blooming on his chin and mouth where I split his lip with one of the rings on my hand. I can feel my pupils dilate when I smell it, and I descend, allowing him to control the speed while I devour the sweet copper off and out of his mouth. He's making desperate noises I've never been privy to before, and I know its both form the pleasure of our bodies moving in sync, and the stinging pain of me licking his wound. Now that I've drawn blood I feel he's paid for his sins, I allow his arms and hands to move freely, sliding up my belly and along my shoulders, tangling and tugging in my hair. I've closed my hands closer around his neck for support, and his breathing has become more strained and ragged as he attempted to moan and cry out for me.

I'm getting back in sync again, lost in my head, lost in the feeling of taking his breath from him with my hands for the way he's making me feel, for the way he's forcing me to address my emotions in ways I'm not comfortable. Finally I lose it, so hard, harder than I have in a long time, and my body feels like I've been electrocuted. Not shocked, full on hit by lighting. My legs are shaking, arms weak, pulling at my own hair as I cry out again and again with each breath. My muscles are contracting around James' cock, making him feel even thicker, and I revel in small aftershocks coming on. I can't stop shaking and I'm afraid I'll collapse, but James' arms hold me up, and when I feel his hips jump under me, I grind myself down as far as my body will allow. "Look at me."

His eyes are heavy lidded as he bucks with each wave of his own orgasm, but I see his eyes. I see them in a way I never have, and it almost makes me want to cry. Raw, real, here. With me. No words, just bodies, just us, together. I've never felt more connected to him than I do right now, and I feel like my heart is going to burst, pitching blood and gore all over his face. I almost wish it would. My body finally does give up and I collapse in a heap on top of him. His arms are clutched tight around my waist, there's no room between our rib cages and stomachs, our sweat mingling together and cooling us down. Our breathing has slowed, and neither of us wants to move for fear of leaving this place that we are, together. "Lacie-" his voice is soft, just above a whisper, and I can feel his chest contracting as he speaks. "Lace, I just need you to-"

I clap my fingers down onto his mouth and shake my head, as rapidly as my tired neck will allow. "No. Don't say anything to me right now. Please. I can't."

I can't hear him say anything right now, because I'm afraid I will take anything he says as gospel in the face of our glorious workout, and the endorphins rushing through my head like marathon runners. I also don't know if what he's thinking to say is real, or just a result of the chemicals making our brains feel giddy and sentimental. I've had enough feelings for today. I'm suffering from some serious sensory overload. 

We step into my shower, which is happily big enough for two, and I'm coming down. I don't feel sinking in my stomach, I don't feel bad. Not yet. James is behind me, molding his body into mine perfectly somehow, despite our height difference. I wrap my arms over his around my waist and tuck my head into the crook of his arm. Why can't everything be this simple? This warm and lovely? I've never been good at relationships, long-term or otherwise, and don't remember anything like this with another person. I want to hate it, but I don't. It's too soothing.

We've curled ourselves around each other in my bed, and though I should be warm I feel cold. James runs his hands up my arms to cup my shoulders, whispering close to my face, "You've got goosebumps, Baby."

My heart skips a beat. He's never called me "Baby" before. It feels significant to me, but I know it shouldn't. It's just a name, a term of endearment, Like "Kitten" or "Lace." So why does it feel different to me? I murmur for him not to worry about it, and I do get goosebumps easily, so it's not even a lie.

 

In the muddy plane of quasi-sleep, I feel my bed shifting in what must be the wee hours, but my brain doesn't care to react. Shuffling, creaking, just noises. Go back to sleep, please. No lights come on, and I feel myself thanking James for knowing how to navigate in the dark without waking someone.  _Wait._ It's only then that I begin to realize what's happening. I'm still too groggy to be concerned; those sleeping pills always put a hurtin' on me if I try to wake any earlier they want me to. There's pressure on the bed, a light gracing of fingers on my shoulder, and I feel James's kiss on my temple, just chaste enough. The warmth seems to spread to my cheeks and forehead, and I feel myself smile before realizing my brain has told me to. His lips moves from my temple to my forehead, then back down to my cheekbone. "I'm very sorry, Kitten. Please believe me."

Then, nothing. Empty air in my room that he once filled. I'm not sad, and I don't cry. I don't feel much of anything, I'm still half-asleep. I just feel warm under my duvet comforter, curled in on myself, pillow cool under my head. If I were myself, I don't know what I would have done, and I don't think about it. No use even wondering, because I'm just so tired. I'm feeling fuzzier and fuzzier as my brain shuts my body down and pulls me back to sleep, and I need to sleep, because to be awake right now would be so much trouble.


	15. Chapter 15

I would like to claim that nothing has changed. That I'm completely fine, no ripple effect, back to work as usual, and for the first week, I was. I think I was just running on auto pilot there for a while, and that suited me just fine. I even organized and attended The Azalea Group's monthly meeting without a hitch. Once a month I take the girls out to a grand dinner where we get gussied up and talk shop; there's so many of us we usually have to buy out more than one banquet room. Luckily enough, the restaurant we always meet in graciously keeps the space I need open for me as long as I give them notice, since all the Azalea girls in one place tends to cause quite the stir, very good for business.

Now I'm feeling more and more like my world has been flipped on its head. The calm, cool persona of Ms. Azalea has been fading slowly and replaced with the good old Lacie Gray I grew up with, and she doesn't handle stress quite so gracefully. I'm having trouble concentrating, I'm dropping the ball at the office, and others are having to pick up the slack. Kerri is terrified, because she's never seen me like this before, but damn if she isn't still chugging along like the engine that could. I'll have to remind myself to get her a new suit, or a gift basket or something. I'm damn lucky I haven't been requested at any private events recently, because I have my doubts that I'd be able to perform at my usual max capacity, and that kills me. It would be a horrorshow. One thing I'm not dropping the ball on, is my crusade against the traffickers. I recently landed a deal with one of the women's homes in the area, that agreed to take some of the girls that we can't re-home right away, and a good client of mine gifted me with the funding to provide the home with. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself, in that respect, and haven't run in to any problems lately, either. I wonder if its because of James promising me his help. Has he somehow orchestrated a remote way of keeping eyes on me while he's gone? I sure as hell hope so. I'm really not in the mood for anyone to attempt to murder me again. I've even been keeping my gun in my nightstand recently, just in case. Moshi doesn't seem to like it. He spent an entire evening staring at it judgmentally while I read a book next to him. In any case, its been giving me something meaningful to focus on, and has me in the office later so I don't have to go home for any longer then I want to be there.

As I mentioned, for the first week, give or take, I was a woman possessed, feeling nothing, letting nothing stop me. The only thing that I can compare it to is when you've been up for over 24 hours strait and you still have work to do, so after a while your body stops fighting you and ceases feeling tired. Your brain is wired and laser focused on your tasks, weeding out anything that dares enter your peripherals to distract you. Now I'm coming down off of that high, and I just feel weary. Weary and worried, dreading what's going on behind my back, with James and his "business." His "mess." I haven't heard from him at all. Not one peep, nor a single text. Not that I've been expecting anything, I took him at his word when he said he'd be unreachable, I just can't help but think maybe I should have heard something by now. I hate waiting for the other shoe to drop, especially when its for an extended period of time. Just rip the bandage off already. Questions have been swallowing my mind whole, enveloping my senses, so much so that I've gotten literally nothing productive done all day. "Where did James go?" "Is he really going to be gone a month?" "Does any of this really have something to do with me, or have I just been paranoid?" "What if he's just using all of this as an excuse to disappear so he won't have to see me anymore?" "Why do I even care if that's the case?"

God, I'm so fucking confused, I can't stand it. I can't wait for all of this to be over and for him to come back, tell me what happened, tell me its all over, or never come back so I never have to see his stupid gum-chewing cheeky smug face again. I don't really want the latter to take place, though. I want him to come back, which pisses me off, but at the same time I've kind of conceded to the fact that becoming attached to him, just a little, isn't the worst thing that could happen. I like him, so what? I like kissing him, and the feeling of his body asleep next to mine, and God knows I love having sex with the man, but I'm still all torn up, and can't seem to shake it. I've never been good with worrying and waiting, I mean, is anybody? Is there anyone alive that doesn't hate that? Good for them. Please teach a course on it for me. After founding The Azalea Group, I never planned on having another romantic relationship, at least until I retire, some time in the distant future. That thought never bothered me. I'd had plenty of boyfriends and heartaches as a girl, and the feelings are all the same, just with different people. Sure, sex is nice, but I'd had my fare share growing up, and I was fine with forgoing it in the name of my business, in the name of exclusivity. I was not prepared for any kind of affair to sneak up on me, let alone one I actually ended up being more than just superficially invested in. I have no manual to turn to to fix this.

I don't even know why I'm still at the fucking office. I haven't done laundry in ages and my skirt is wrinkled, one of the buttons on my blouse is fraying and threatening to fall off, and don't even get me started on the bags under my eyes. I'm staring, bleary eyed, at my monitor, and I haven't even bothered to put my contacts in in days, so the glare of the screen on my glasses is near unbearable, and the lenses are smudged. All I can see is sequences of blurry characters, and a cursor that won't move. Finally, I give up trying to get any work done. It's almost six, anyways. When I reach the door to the office, I glance back at Kerri for a moment. She's all business, and contrasting my new look, perfectly groomed, as always. In spite of all the stress, she's been operating with little to no error. Sometimes I forget how good she is, and have to remember why it is that I hired her in the first place, above all the other girls; and one boy, who applied. Though she sometimes looses her composure and seems wary of myself and my sometimes unpredictable behavior, with other people, businesses, clients, she is damn near infallible. Since I only ever experience her demurring to me, I often take for granted just how well she holds this office together to match my high standards, how often she doesn't let me down. Kerri looks up, only now realizing I've been watching her for a few moments. "Ms. Azalea? Do you need anything?"

Smiling, I shake my head. "No, Kerri, thank you. I just wanted you to know that...you're doing a fantastic job."

She doesn't blush or argue, like I think she will, just nods and smiles. "Thank you very much Ma'am. Please try to get some rest."

 

When I get to my condo, I throw as much laundry into the wash as I can, gathering it up in little lumpy piles off of my bedroom floor that I've been ignoring and tripping over for days; so not like me. My more delicate clothing is sent off in bags with the pick-up and delivery girl employed by my dry-cleaner. Next, I tackle general cleaning. Trash, dishes, dusting the furniture, sweeping, polishing, etc. It feels good to be doing something productive, finally. Something to keep me busy again. When I was younger, I'd never been a fan of tidying up. Oh hell, I hated it, but once I started living on my own, I developed an urgent sense of needing my homes to be uncluttered and inviting, a clear space so I can be at ease and think. I cannot relax with clutter. Its become a kind of therapy now, at least for me, a therapy I happily engage in and don't have to pay for. Disposing of all of the detritus and leaving nothing but my clean, fresh space in my wake. Its been a bit more labor intensive than my usual bi-daily spot checks, but no less soothing. Moshi was perched on my loveseat, meowing at me, and I will not think about what happened on that loveseat two weeks ago. I stare at it for a tic or two too long over my kitchen counter, wishing I could make my memory of him somehow materialize physically back in my apartment, and with a sigh, I trudge toward my liquor cabinet. Grabbing a Rocks glass, I pour a double of Maker's in it with a dash of Bitters, and shoot it down without thinking twice. Wiping my mouth off with the back of my hand, I revel in the joy of warmth sliding down my throat and across my lips with my hand, and the immediate edge the whiskey has taken off. Then I rinse the glass and put it back where it belongs. See? All better.

Moosh mews at me judgmentally, which warrants a deep eye-roll from me. "Oh please, if you were human, you'd be a drinker too. I can tell by the look of ya."

Moshi has been much more visible of late. Cats are strange in that way, aloof 90% of the time, but the second you need their comfort, they're there with their silent support, or in Moosh's case, silent disapproval cut with support, even if you don't know you need it yet. A day or two preceding a nasty cold, just before your period starts, or when you're just sad, and not quite ready to admit something is bothering you. If you pay attention, they'll never be far behind. I'm sweeping around my front door when I see a bright slip of orange paper on the ground in front of me, just inside of the space between door and hardwood. Setting the broom aside, I bend down and examine the little thing. Its a delivery slip; I hadn't been home to sign for a parcel delivery, so the office was holding it for me. Shrugging, I throw a hoodie on over the soiled clothes I've been cleaning in, and put the little slip in my pocket.

I exit the elevator and enter the well lit office that smells of too many candles, and one of the leasing agents, June, looks up at me and smiles from behind her big, dark wooded desk. I return her smile and hand her the slip. "Oh, Ms. Azalea. I haven't seen anything delivered for you in a while." She gets up and begins going through a lopsided stack of packages of varying sizes and shapes in the corner of the room, with her back to me.

"I know, I usually have anything important delivered to the office. Actually, I have no idea what it could be, I'm not expecting anything." I bite my lip, because I didn't even think about that little fact until now. The last thing I ordered had been from a delightful little local soap company that specializes in all natural products of varying scents made with essential oils. I ordered their deluxe gift package for one of my long standing clients for his yearly "Thank you for having us" check up. 

"Well, a surprise is always nice."

I don't even bother telling her how much I hate surprises, because now that the thought is in my head, I just want her to give me the damn thing so I can find out what it is already. She turns around holding what looks like a small cakebox of a very delicate pink, and tied off with white cord.  _James?_   Is it from him, has he sent something to me? Why, and what the hell can it be? Well, if there's on thing I've learned, its that unexpected gifts are definitely his style.  "Ooh, its chilled! Maybe its some nice chocolates, hm?"

When she hands the box to me I smile, trying not to rudely snatch it from her grasp, and thank her for retrieving it for me. "We'll see, June. It's probably from one of my clients."

 

I put the box down in front of me on my dining table, and stare at it for a moment, running my fingers along the smooth pink cardboard, and it's indeed cool to the touch. There's no return address, no notes, no distinguishing marks of any kind. Moshi yawns and meanders into the hallway, probably on the way to shed his hair all over my comforter. The twine that binds the box isn't the kind that's easily untied, so I grab my kitchen shears and snip it apart. My impatience is catching up with me now, and I toss the twine away from me, flipping the top of the box back as far back as it will go. Inside of it is a smaller Tupperware dish, which I remove, and push the pink box aside, setting the smaller one in its place. There had been an ice pack under it that I noticed before moving it away. The plastic is fogged up with condensation, so I can't immediately discern what it contains. With some difficulty, I mange to pop the lid off of the little storage container, and set it to the side with the pink package and discarded twine. 

My brain doesn't automatically register what my eyes are seeing in front of me. It's long, pale, and smooth, bisected by a thick gold strip of metal, much like a tube of lipstick. Why would someone send me lipstick on ice? Delivery trucks are temperature controlled, the office is air conditioned, and so is my apartment. There's little to no chance of it having melted in transit to me, even if the weather was at its warmest. My eyes widen and quick, shallow breaths are all I seem to be able to take in. Time seems to slow down as I continue trying to figure out what I'm looking at, and I realize the little gold strip isn't a lipstick band at all, its a ring, a custom made, gold men's wear ring. I know its custom made, because I'm the one that designed it. I don't have to put any effort into recognizing the little engravings and designs, because I already know what they are. _Robert Andrew Paulson III, Class of 1998, U.S.A.F._  It's Robert's ring. The one I got him after I heard he left the Air Force, just before he came to work for me. I had been so, so proud of him. Why haven't I heard from Robert in so long? Its been, what, a month since he called me at the office? Why haven't I even wondered about his whereabouts in an entire _month?_ I foolishly thought he stopped trying to reach me because of my vehement denial of his calls and messages and pushed it to the back of my mind. I have had a lot on my plate lately, to say the least, and the time has been blitzing by me so fast, but that's not like him, and its definitely not like me. He would have gotten to me and given me a piece of his mind, one way or another, if he had to drag me kicking and screaming out of my apartment, especially if it was important. I may have rebuked him after his slip ups with me, but that didn't mean that we weren't still friends, James' theory about Rob's only intent having been his feelings for me be damned. It would have all blown over in time, as all friends' arguments do. Yeah, it was a big one, a big, awkward one, but nothing that would have driven a permanent wedge between us.

Then it really hits me; It's not a tube of lipstick. It's a finger. It's Robert's fucking right hand ring finger, sitting in a plastic tub on my dining room table. I stand up so fast that my chair flies out from behind me and clatters to the floor on its side. My hand flies to my mouth and a scream so loud it deafens me tears its way out of my lungs; all I can hear is a high pitched ringing. Everything else is silence. My hands come crashing downward, and everything that once had a place on my table is skittering across my dining room floor and into the living room. A vase, napkins, silk flowers, a drinking glass, the little pink box with its cord, and now, Robert's fucking finger. I don't hear my footfalls as I run to my bedroom, crashing into things, throwing my door open so hard the wall behind it splinters. Moshi scrambles off of my bed and out the door faster than lightening, and I nearly trip over him trying to grab my cellphone off my nightstand. My hands are shaking as I scroll through my contacts, and my face is so fucking hot I feel like I'm going to faint, but I don't. I can't. The contact I'm searching for catches my eye, and while the little device dials James' number, I don't hear the whirring tones go by in their little programmed frequencies. All I can hear above the explosive ringing in my head is the last thing I ever heard Robert say.

_Lacie, you don't understand. It's about James._


	16. Chapter 16

My breathing is becoming more and more erratic, and I realize, as the phone keeps ringing, that my face is wet. Why is my face be wet? Am I crying? I'm not sad. I don't know what I am, and why wont James just answer the goddamned phone already?!

 _The wireless number you have dialed cannot be reached_ at _this time. Please leave a message, or try again later. Goodbye._

Click, and silence. I don't bother waiting for the beep preceding the answering machine. I'm clutching my phone like a vice grip pacing my room, feeling sick to my stomach. This isn't real. None of this is real, its just a bad dream, another one of my nightmares. My face continues to be hot and wet, but I'm still not sad. So why am I crying? The finger, lying disembodied on my living room floor flashes to mind, and I scream again, raise my hands to my ears; anything to make the ringing stop. If it doesn't my head will split open. Okay, calm down. Call the cops. I just need to call the police, and we'll figure out what's happened, and everything will be fine. I'm poised with my fingers on the dialpad when my phone starts shrieking at me. The number is restricted. I'm shaking so hard I can barely swipe it across the screen to accept the call, but somehow manage.

I don't even wait for him to say anything. My voice is shaking and I'm trying not to scream. "James, what the _FUCK_ is going on?!"

A pause, and then, "I take it you didn't like my little gift then?"

He doesn't sound nervous, or even smug, or anything. Just a question. 

"What the fuck is going on?! Where is Robert? Did you send me-" I pause to breathe, because thinking about it is making me sick. "Did you fucking send me Robert's finger? What did you do with him you fucking-"

I'm cut off by the knock at the door. "Delivery!" The words are far away, and I ignore them. I swear to God if it's another body part...

There's more silence on the other end, but when James does speak, I've never heard his voice so dark. Most men's voice go gravely when they're angry, but his was as smooth as ever, just, so much darker. "What did you just say?"

This is becoming infuriating, and I'm glad to replace my feelings of horror with anger. "I said, I got Rob's fucking finger delivered to me in a pretty pink package today! What the fuck did you do?!"

There's another call for a delivery at the door followed by knocking, and I run to the hall to yell at them to leave it at the door. No way I would answer to a delivery guy right now, anyways. To hell with that. The knocking ceases after that, and I'm grateful. I really don't need any more distractions, I need to figure out what's going on, where Robert is, and why I have a finger in my apartment. Maybe its not his finger, maybe its just a warning, or a threat, I don't know, something! Just please, don't let it be real.

" _LACIE!"_ James is yelling, and I realize he must have been trying to get my attention for some time. "I'm here, What?"

His voice is still uncharacteristically low, and it sounds downright dangerous. "I need you to listen to me very carefully, Lacie. I'm not far. I can be there in 45 minutes. Lacie, I need you to make sure your doors and windows are locked. Turn off every light in your apartment, and do not move until I get there. Do you understand?"

"James, What the fuck is this?!" As I'm yelling, I run to my front door to assure its locked and dead-bolted, turning lights off as I go. I only have a few windows, and I never unlock them anyways.

"Lacie, just do as I say. No more questions."

The line goes dead just as I hear two gunshots in the hallway.  _Oh, shit._ They're not loud enough for any normal person to realize they're noises coming from a gun, but I know a silenced pistol when I hear it. Still clutching my phone, I run back into my bedroom, shut off the lights, and grab a flashlight from my nightstand, picking up my gun next to check and see if its loaded, then turn the safety off. I'm closing the door to my bathroom when I hear what can only be my front door crashing open into my foyer, and I try not to gasp. There's no window in the bathroom, so its completely dark, but all an intruder would have to do is turn on the light to know I'm in here if I just try to hide behind something. I quickly decide to open one of my cabinet doors and crawl into it, something anyone taller than me wouldn't be able to do. Snaps for being short. I move the clutter out of my way as silently as possible and try to control my breathing. I can hear them moving around in the apartment. At least, it doesn't sound like there's only one. Please God, don't let it be more than two. Obviously, I don't want it to come to me having to fight them, but I sure as hell know I can't take more than two, even with a gun. Why is this happening? Who the hell are these people? Did James send them, was he just trying to throw me off by telling me to stay put? If that's the case, why did he even call me back, why did give me a head start? Then it hits me. The traffickers. They're finally trying to make their move with James having been out of town, but what did Robert have to do with any of this? He wasn't working for me at the time he would have been abducted, or whatever it is they did with him. I can't try to pick it apart anymore, because I can hear the intruders just outside my door, in my bedroom. It doesn't sound like they're tearing anything up, but they are obviously searching for me. They probably don't want to make too much noise, with this being a crowded building. Smart.

I brace myself, gripping my gun to my shoulder with two hands and abandoning the flashlight, when I hear them quietly open my bathroom door, and see them switch the light on.  _Shit._ Heavy footsteps, then an annoyed hissing sound. Hopefully they won't think the cabinets are big enough for me to hide in. "Goddammit, the bitch isn't in here."

A different voice says, "We're not leaving until we find her, she was confirmed entering the apartment, but she never came out. She's in here somewhere. There's no fire escape, and no ladders, so she couldn't have gone out a window."

Okay, think. If they know for certain I'm in here, then they're not going to leave unless they find me. The longer I hide out, the more irritated they get, and they can't be dumb enough not to go back and check all the cabinets once they realize I'm not anywhere else. I've got to do something, but what? I can't just come flying out of the cabinet and run away, I'd never get past their ankles. Maybe, maybe if I...

I try to focus on the space I can feel and hear them standing in, they're still having a conversation, but I do my best to tune them out. Okay. Breathe in, breathe out. And, go time. Pointing my gun in front of me two handed, I aim just a little upward and pray to whoever is up there listening that I don't go deaf, then fire two shots one after another. Again, all I can hear is ringing, but this time its physical, not mental. I kick the cabinet door open. If I can stay low, maybe they won't know where to shoot. I can't even tell if I hit one of them, because my hearing is just a void of high pitched nonsense. I try to crawl out, but someone has my foot, and I'm being dragged out instead. I scream, trying to keep hold of my gun without shooting myself in the arm. I'm blinded by the brilliant contrast of light in my bathroom opposed to the shadows of my cabinet, and when I can see again, all I get is swirling colors, because I'm being yanked to my feet by a huge balding man in Dickies and a leather jacket. There's another man on the ground, screaming, clutching at his leg, which is currently spurting out blood in heartbeat like time. I got his Femoral Artery, and from the looks of it, his knee as well. He's bleeding to death. I almost feel bad, but the huge man holding me up is yelling very loudly, words I can't understand, dragging me out of the room behind him, and he's twisting my arm so hard I hear something pop. With his back turned to me, I manage to land a solid kick to the back of one knee. He doesn't go all the way down, though he lets go of my arm. I can move it, but it feels like the joint and socket where arm meets shoulder are out of sync. Without thinking, I run past him and he's trying to grab at my ankles but misses. I can hear him getting up and lumbering after me as I tear through my home toward the door, now hanging open. If he's yelling at me, I don't hear it. I don't hear anything, and all I can feel is my feet hitting the ground and my heart trying to crash out of my chest. Something solid and heavy hits me on the back of my wounded shoulder, and I let out a cry of pain, affected by the blow, but I don't lose my footing, or see what he threw at me.  

I turn around and everything slows down, like in the movies. Dickies guy is barreling toward me, swinging his silenced pistol in my direction. Why hadn't he just tried to shoot me before now, instead of dragging me out of my bathroom? No time to think. If I keep standing here, he's going to knock me over and probably hurt just more than my arm when we hit the floor. There's only one option. I'm a one handed shot now, which makes me far less accurate, but I try to line it up as best I can. I pull the trigger once, and there's a tiny explosion of blood from the arm holding the gun, but he doesn't stop, he just keeps coming, so I fire again, and this time it hits him in the leg. He falls down to one knee, and is screaming with pain and rage. I don't want to do this, but I know if I try to run away he'll just keep coming for me. There are too many obstacles between myself and the outside world; the odds that I'll make it out alive are dangerously slim. While he's still down, clutching his leg, I breathe, and close my eyes before my finger presses down on the trigger one more time. When I open them, he's gone to the floor, on his back. There's blood everywhere. Smeared here and there between the hallway and living room, pooling around his body, splattered on my furniture and floor, just so much blood. I don't check to see where my last bullet landed, just turn around and run out into the hallway. I don't want to chance getting cornered in the elevator, because I don't know how many of them there actually are, or whether or not they had somehow alerted reinforcements. I'm at the top of the stairwell when I slip and fall right on my ass in a dark, lukewarm puddle.

I try not to scream, and I scramble backward until I hit something solid when I see a guy in a brown uniform slumped against the wall in a corner, blood pooling at his feet and painting the wall behind his head. He's holding something. I squint, unable to make my legs work anymore, and realize its a bouquet. The once white Chrysanthemums and Baby's Breath are now spattered and smeared with red, like someone had used a Blow Pen on them. Is that the "gift" James mentioned? The one he thought I was calling him about? I can't think strait, and have started to cry again. What am I supposed to do now? There are two dead thugs in my apartment, and one poor delivery guy holding a bouquet of flowers intended for me in his arms, now covered in his blood. Do I call the police and try to explain all of this? Would they believe me? I wouldn't believe me. This is all too much of an action box-office buster story to be real life. I look down and realize there's also blood all over myself and my clothing. I know I'm not hurt, at least not in the kind of way that results in bleeding, and realize it must be from when I got dragged around on my bathroom floor. I shiver when I see some of it is drying and starting to flake on my hands, arms, legs.

I'm still on the ground, useless, catatonic, when I hear footsteps echoing against the walls of the stairwell. "Help," I try to say, but it squeaks out of me as not more than a whimper.

A small, dark haired man catches the corner in front of me at full speed and stops. His dark eyes fall on me and they're wide, like a defensive cat. He also has a gun. Not in his hand, but in a shoulder holster that I can see peeking out of his dark blue dress jacket. I almost consider raising my own and shooting him with it, but he's running up the steps too fast for me to do much of anything. He's crouching in front of me, hands on either side of my face, turning it gently from left to right. I think his mouth is moving, but all I hear are mumbles. He's grasping my shoulders now, shaking me, but not hard. I blink, and look into his eyes. He's trying to say something, but I still can't hear much, though the ringing has become less pressing. It's in my head, but not filling it up anymore. I don't know what he's saying, so I just stare up at him and shake my head, pitifully. I don't know if he understands or not, but he gets up, trying to pull me gently with him, and he's grabbed my injured arm. I yank it back, shrieking at him. I'm staring up at him like a wounded animal looking at its hunter, and realize Luke is there in the stairwell, too, just a few feet behind James. His gun's not in its holster, its in his hand, in a neutral position. Jame's turns his head to look at Luke, and makes some hand motions. Luke nods and pushes past us, his leg brushing against mine on his way out.

I look up at him and he's looking at me too. For a split second I think I see pity, or at least something like it, but then its gone, and so is he. I'm off the floor, and James is grabbing me up in his arms, careful of my injury. How is he able to carry me so easily? I'm clutching my gun so hard to my breast my knuckles ache. I can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks, and almost hear real words. I barely sense the gentle rise and fall of his accent, and between that and my rocking in his arms with each step, I'm almost feeling tired. No. No, I can't go to sleep. I have to understand what just happened. Before we reach the street, James sets me on the ground, seems to realize I'm not wearing any shoes, then picks me up again. We're facing each other this time, and I'm forced to rest my arms against his chest with my head over his shoulder, instead of a bridal-carry. When we're outside, he carefully lowers me down so that my feet rest on top of his own. Behind me, he opens the passenger side door of a car I don't recognize, then helps me sit and buckles me in, gun and all. Maybe he's scared to try and take it from me. I would be. He gets in the driver's side, and I realize this is the first time I've ever witnessed James operating a vehicle. As we're pulling away, I want to say, "You can't go, we're leaving Luke behind," but my throat is too dry to make any attempt at speaking. 

Lights and landmarks go by, but I have no idea where he's taking me. I think he's finally given up on trying to say anything. James, speechless? Never. He takes his time on occasion, but he's never speechless. I'm wondering again who those men were that tried to take me, and can't decide whether or not I feel bad for killing them. I don't guess I can, without knowing who they were. Is that really true? Either way, they were at the very least sent to retrieve me against my will, but did that mean they deserved to die? The delivery guy sure hadn't. He was just doing his job, and got caught up in this catastrophic mess I've made for myself. Three people are dead, and its my fault. Tommy deserved it, Tommy killed one of my girls. I felt no remorse pulling the trigger on that waste of space. Those men were more than likely just as awful as him, so why is my conscience deciding to be a dick right now? Maybe it's to protect me from thinking about anything else to do with this fuck fest. Robert's finger in a pink box. James taking me away somewhere. No explanation as to where he's been, what he's been doing, where Robert is, is he okay, does James have anything to do with him getting hurt? If he does, he's going to have to kill me, because I will most definitely try to put him in the ground first. I feel his hand on my thigh, and I realize that the car has stopped moving. I turn to look at him, and it must not be a pretty face, because James' mouth is set in a near strait line, bordering on a frown, eyebrows neutral but for a slight furrowing at the upper bridge of his nose, eyes cut directly at me, and they are so dark. Even though the cabin light is on and we're close enough for me to be able to see their true color, I don't. All I see is empty.

I still can't quite hear the words he's saying, but I'm good enough at reading lips to pick it up. _"I'm sorry I've let this happen."_

 


	17. Chapter 17

We end up at the house with the pool and the gratuitous backyard, and though there's still a faint ring, my hearing is improving surprisingly rapidly. When James tries to scoop me up again, I refuse. "I'm barefoot James, not crippled."

He says nothing, just leads me inside by my uninjured arm. When I try to sit down in the kitchen, he stops me. "Lace, we need to take care of your arm and get you to bed. You're in no shape-"

"No. I'm not going to sleep this off, James. You're going to tell me what the fuck is going on, now."

He's exasperated, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows I'm not going to budge. Good call. "At least let me take a look at the arm."

Stubbornly, I shake my head. It hurts like hell, but its not on my Top 5 list of worries right now. "Lace, if we don't at least get it bound, you could suffer permanent damage. I won't have that, not along with everything else."

I think about it for a moment, then nod. If it will make him more likely to tell me, I'll let him look at my arm.

James has a surprisingly impressive first aid selection, but then again, why is that surprising at all? Surely shit like this must be a common occurrence in his day to day, from what I've experienced. What exactly does he do, anyways? It can't just be that he's an investor, or a stock mogul, or whatever. He seems too well equipped for emergency situations. Security, guns, multiple hideouts, first aid. Maybe he's just a dirty businessman, like the Traffickers. I can't guess. I've never been so in the dark about another persons' real objectives. He feels around the joints in my arm, then disappears into the bathroom and produces a few pills, which he asks me nicely to take. I consider whether or not I should. The pain in my head and arm has become throbbing, as if it were alive, now that I've run out of adrenaline and shock to feed my invincibility. I decide to be as compliant as possible, because it will irritate him less, and make him more likely to actually tell me what I want to know. I scrutinize the little tablets, checking the numbers and letters for keys as to what they are. I took an EMT training course in my brief stint at college. Figured I might as well take away something useful from the otherwise pointless endeavor. The larger oval pill is Hydrocodone, and the much smaller little triangle is probably a Xanax. As much as I want to be completely mentally armed to fight him, I know I need to calm down to be able to I think more clearly, so I swallow them with the little glass of seltzer water he offers me. After I take the pills, he wraps my arm to my chest in a makeshift sling of padding and gauze. "We may have to call someone in to set it properly tomorrow."

He's frowning at the sling, as if he's unhappy with it, among other things. "Why don't you just do it? You seem to know enough about emergency medical treatment."

If he senses my contempt, he doesn't show it. "Because I don't want to hurt you any more tonight."

His response is oddly satisfying, and I let him wash the spots of drying blood off of me with a warm rag. I want to enjoy his hands on me, taking care of me, making me feel better, but I can't. I want to cry. He walks back into the bathroom, and with some difficulty I get up to head toward the kitchen. He doesn't follow me immediately, so I locate his Keurig and cartridges by memory and fix myself a cup of coffee. I don't make anything for him, because I don't know what he wants, if anything. Besides, I'm not feeling very gracious this evening. Was it even evening any more? I have no idea how much time has passed between me leaving work and arriving here. Too much has happened. When he finally does appear, I'm already seated at the little island table, enjoying the warmth of my coffee. My eyes follow him to the other room, where he prepares two Rocks glasses with some dark liquid out of an unmarked decanter. When he takes a seat across from me and offers me the second glass, I shake my head. "I don't want that."

I've lost hope on him not staring at me like I'm a child tonight, so it doesn't offend me when he continues to do it to me now. "You're still shaking, Kitten. We can't have a proper conversation if you're still in the wake of shock."

I actually find that I need the fucking alcohol, like when a regular smoker realizes when they need their nicotine fix, and I shoot it down greedily, abandoning the dark warmth in the mug. "Don't call me that right now."

He shrugs, and looks so tired he almost seems sad. "If that's what you want."

I slam the glass down onto the table, enjoying the slow burn of what tasted like some kind of rye whiskey, and I'm trying to sound calmer than I feel. At least the shaking has lessened, for now. "No James, what I want, is for you to explain all of this to me, everything. Now."

He also takes a forward approach to his drink and slugs it all down. "What do you want to know?"

"Where were you? Why didn't you just tell me where you were going when I asked?"

He's staring at nothing, frowning, not really focusing on the room in front of him, then takes a deep breath before speaking. "Gerome Alvarez, the leader of the Trafficking Ring you've been offending, finally put out a real hit on you. He wanted you dead. He knew you were under my protection, of course, so he fled the country to try and hide." 

I'm starting to get angry, despite the whiskey to take the edge off. "Why the fuck didn't you just tell me that in the first place?!"

Sighing, he heads back to the bar to retrieve the decanter, then brings it back to the table and refills both of our glasses. I'm still waiting for him to answer me. "I didn't want to scare you unnecessarily."

I want to strike out. Break our glasses, punch him in the face, anything, but I'm just too tired. My joints and muscles are starting to ache now, and it would be hard to land a punch with my non-dominant hand, anyways. "Unnecessarily? James, if someone was trying to kill me, I think knowing about it would have been worth the risk of upsetting me, and If I was under you "protection," then why did I have to shoot my way out of my apartment tonight?!"

He looks crestfallen and uncertain. Good. If he's uncomfortable with failure, then that's what I'm going to throw at him. God knows he deserves it. "There are some unexpected holes in my security, it seems."

I shake my head furiously, slamming my glass down on the table after taking a drink. "James, one of the reasons I felt comfortable letting Robert go was that you said you were going to help me. If I knew this is what "help" looks like to you, I never would have accepted your involvement in my life."

I purposely use the word "life," instead of "affairs," because I want to hurt his feelings. I want to hurt him just as badly as I'm hurting. I know that's childish, but its all I have right now. He hasn't moved or said anything in some time, but his eyes cut down to the floor instead of glaring across the room. His lashes are dark and long, framing his small, round eyes, but not in a way that makes him look like he's got permanent eyeliner, like some darker haired men. His eyes are always soft and white, and now they look paler than ever, if you discount the heavy bruise-like bags under them. He nods, out of nowhere, and takes another drink. Since he doesn't seem to have anything to say for himself, I take my chance to continue. "If Gerome wanted me dead, then why did his men try to take me, instead of killing me and getting it over with?"

Still looking down, he replies, "I suspect that he had a contingency plan in place, should his groups here catch wind of him being in danger. They thought if they could get to you, they would be able to use you as leverage against me."

Something here doesn't quite add up, and I can't put my finger on it. "So they were what, going to hold me until you returned their leader safely?"

He shakes his head, and for the first time tonight, doesn't seem disappointed or tired. "Oh, he was dead by the time they got to you, they just didn't know it yet."

Okay, so they came to get me so James wouldn't kill Gerome, but that doesn't explain why Robert got caught up in all of this. Having slid that issue to the back of my mind in the beginning, trying to take this all one thing at a time, I start to feel desperately anxious about it. "What does Robert have to do with this? Why did they send me his fucking finger?"

He finally stops staring idly at the floor and empty space, and looks up at me. It almost doesn't seem like he is, though, because his body is hunched uncharacteristically forward with his chair pulled out from the table, elbows on his knees. "To scare you. To be cruel, maybe. I don't know, Lacie. These are crass criminals that resort to gory scare tactics to get their job done."

I return his gaze and stare right back into his eyes, and feel that mine are empty. "I don't believe that."

He looks down again, but doesn't say anything. I'm getting really tired of this evasive shit. "Where is Robert, James? I know you have to know. I want to know if he's okay. I have to know how badly they hurt him."

His face is back up, and he looks just pitiful. He's in rare form tonight, and not in a fun way. Seeing him not having everything planned out and put together for once was so jarring that I don't know what to do with it. "I don't know, Lacie. I just don't"

"You're lying."

I know he is. He wouldn't look so hopeless if he wasn't. He's lying, and he doesn't know what to tell me to cover up what its about. I believe what he said about Alvarez and his goons, but I am not buying that he can't have any idea what has become of Robert. He's far too well informed to not even have an idea, security holes or not. Its my turn to be the one searching for something. His eyes, his posture, his words. I'm trying hard to channel his behavior, to find patterns out of a bunch of meaningless scribble, like pieces of a complicated and fragile puzzle. Its some time before he replies, and my eyes must be just, ice cold, because that's how I feel.

"I will find whoever did this to Robert, whoever else was involved in hurting you, and I will kill them. But I can't do anything right now."

I'm still staring blankly into his eyes, crystal green meeting its inevitable, shadowy black doom and I know he means it. But it doesn't change anything. "That's not good enough."

When he continues to stare at me, weary eyed, I stand up and repeat myself. "That's not good enough."

I have nothing else to say to him, so I leave, and he doesn't follow me. I meander around until I find a guest room, and look in the closet for something to sleep in. I really don't want to stay in these clothes anymore. The fact that I'm going to be sleeping alone in the house of someone whom I'm having an affair with doesn't even cross my mind. It only occurs to me now that I don't have any of my things. Purse, wallet, phone. I'll deal with it tomorrow. I need to sleep. I manage to find a big cotton V-neck and some sweatpants, and get my soiled clothes off around my sling with some difficulty, then kick them out the door in a pile. When I curl up on myself under the covers, I can't decide how I'm feeling at all. I've gotten three people killed, the late leader of a human trafficking ring had tried to kill me, so James killed him. I still don't know where Robert is, and its driving me crazy. He's been there for me my whole life, supporting me, working for me, even when it was hard for him. I feel the sting of tears prickling behind my eyes, but try my hardest to force them away. What if he's thirsty, hungry, cold, lying in a dark room somewhere? What if he's lost more than just an appendage? What if he isn't here anymore at all? I refuse to believe he could be gone. Not like this. The last time we spoke I was furious with him, and I don't want that to be our last memory. I'm feeling so guilty. All of this is my fault. I should have torn up that goddamned business card and had a priest come bless my office as soon as James walked out of it. If I had been thinking clearly, instead of getting distracted by my inexplicable attraction to James, none of this would have fucking happened. I'd be asleep in my own bed, business as usual, running smoothly. Robert would still just be a phone call away. I wish I had my prescription, because sleep is not going to come easily to me tonight.

 

I wake up to warm, rich light streaming through the windows. From the looks of it, it's probably noon, at least. I glance groggily around the room, and find my purse is on the nightstand, and my phone is next to it, plugged in. Luke probably brought them back when he left my apartment, though someone having been in here while I was sleeping makes me very uncomfortable. Reaching over for the phone, I notice I have two or three missed calls from Greta, but no messages. I'll have to call her later. Right now I dial Kerri, tell her I'm taking a long weekend, and to defer to Miranda, one of my most senior girls, if she needs help with anything that's not usually her job. I gather my things and go to find James. I don't want to be here anymore. I need to be in my own space, so I can think, and relax. For once, I want to be alone. I set my purse on the table, and notice James is out on the balcony, but he's not doing anything. He's still in a pair of sleep pants and a V-neck much like mine, smoking a cigarette. Normally I would think he looked beautiful in the sunlight, warm. I would want to touch his skin with my fingers, rub my face against his. I don't feel that way now, though. Its a hard impulse to fight. All I see is a man smoking a cigarette in in his pajamas. I slide the glass door open delicately, and he doesn't move. "James, I need to go home. I don't want to be here right now."

When I'm with him like this, I always feel like a child asking for permission to go to the mall, or out on a date, because like an idiot I let him tote me around everywhere; never have my own vehicle. It robs me of being able to just leave whenever I feel necessary.

Tapping his cig with his forefinger, he speaks so quietly I almost don't hear him. "I'm sorry."

I come all the way outside the door, wondering if I've heard him right. "What was that?"

He heaves a sigh, and takes a drag. "Please don't be angry with me."

 _Shit_. I move in front of him and throw the cigarette over the railing, and I'm so anxious I'm vibrating. I get the sense that he's pleading with me, and that's terrifying. This is not a man who pleads, not even for me. People beg things of him, not the other way around. "What are you talking about?"

He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, with his hands steepled at his lips, face neutral, if not just to the side of upset. "I sent a party to find Robert late last night. I wanted to find him for you."

My heart leaps, and I kneel down in front of him so we're near eye level. "James, where is he? Is he badly hurt? Please take me to him, I have to see him."

He's shaking his head, and my eyes widen, mind freezing in place. I know, I just know. This can't be happening. My lips are pressing tightly together to prevent me from crying out, and James is speaking again, but I barely register every other word. I already know what he's saying without hearing it out loud. They did find Rob, just not alive. Not here, anymore. Just like Ashley. He went away and left me, just like Ash. No, he didn't leave anyone. He didn't overdose on heroin in the middle of the night, he was fucking murdered. He's dead because of me. I think I'm going to be sick. I hope I'm well enough to aim for James' feet. "Lacie, this isn't your fault. You didn't do this, they did. He died protecting you."

I rise to my feet, and it surprisingly quells my nausea. Then I punch James with my good hand, hard as I've ever hit anyone, right across his pretty cheekbone. I pray for blood drawn, but don't see anything. "Don't you dare. You don't get to say that about him."

He rises to his feet and stares down at me, and my eyes are wild, one fist clenched, arm shaking to the bone. "I'm going home."

I force my legs to move past him, back into the house to grab my things. All I can think about is the last conversation I had with Rob. I was so awful to him. I fired him, rebuked him, and didn't take him seriously when he was 100% correct, about everything. Now he's dead, and I'll never be able to say how sorry I am, to tell him how much I cared about him. Tears are streaming down my face, but I don't feel like I'm crying, not really. I just feel like tears are leaking out of my head because there's no room for any more inside of it. I hear James plodding after me. "Lace, please don't do this."

I spin around so fast it makes my head hurt, and he stops dead in his tracks. "Shut the fuck up. I can't even look at you right now." 

Then his face falls, and its the most heartbreaking thing I've ever seen him do. I'm frozen in place against my will, watching the process take place, like staring at a car crash. His brows have spread far and away from each other, eyes wide, but not in surprise. It was as if gravity was stressing them, drawing them downward, and then his lips. His lips are down turned and half-parted, like he doesn't know what to say, which is fine, because there's nothing he can say to me right now that will make me stay. Not one thing. I've seen him pensive, exhausted, uncomfortable, upset, puzzled, exasperated, but never just sad. I blink my eyes and when they open, he's still frozen in place, like a picture. I almost wish I could take one. Despite everything that's happened, that is still happening; despite losing Robert and killing two men in my home, I still feel a pit open up near my heart while I look at James. I feel his hands on my body, his mouth trying to consume all of me whole. This man that had rolled into my life like a puff of smoke, and was just as evasive. Who had swept me up with words, conversations, camaraderie, luxury hotel rooms. This man that made me feel like I haven't in such a long time; warm, safe, comforted. This man who promised me protection and delivered unto me pain and chaos. It hurts like a bitch, and I feel almost like I'm tearing myself away from him, as if we've been physically sutured together, but I still turn around and leave him standing there, with that look on his face. I walk through the door of his bourgeois home, down the street, and hail a cab. Yes, in a men's pajamas. Yes, with a home-rigged sling on one arm. I doubt anyone will recognize me in this state anyways. I really don't give a shit right now, I just want to go home. I have so many things I need to take care of.


	18. Chapter 18

When I arrive, I'm still in pleasant shock mode. If you've ever experienced the death of a friend or close relative, you know what I'm talking about. You can't grieve yet; there's no time. There are preparations, people to talk to, arrangements to take care of. You don't feel any of the death itself, because you have to focus your energy on the work at hand, and trust me, it requires a lot. I'm happy when I realize Luke cleaned up my apartment, or whoever they sent to do it did. I don't care, I'm just glad everything is back where it's supposed to be. I immediately change into comfortable but presentable clothes, and call Robert's sister, Monica. I can't call his parents; they don't hate me quite as much as my own, but we've never had a chummy relationship.

"Monica?"

"Oh my God, Lacie! Thank God its you." Her voice is muffled with swollen sinuses and eyes. She's been crying, but is in the same mode I've accepted as well.

"So, what's the plan?" How fucking lame is that? It sounds insensitive, but I don't know what else to say. I don't know how much she knows; what the authorities have told the family, what the official cause of death is being presented as. There's a deep pang of guilt I can't quell, and I try to choke it down. If James' men had found him, what did they do with him? Did they set it up to look like an accident themselves, or did James have enough sway for them to have just turned the body over with a story, and that was enough? The body? God, this is so fucked up.

"I don't know, Lacie. They called us early this morning and said it was a hit and run. They weren't able to find the fucker who did it."

Hit and run, huh? How convenient. Good way to cover up a lot of physical damage without raising eyebrows. I try not to sound as panicked as I feel, try to put the thoughts of Robert's last hours in the back of my mind. Breathe. Compartmentalize. Self destruct later.

"God Monica, I'm so sorry. I had no idea until...until this morning. I saw it on the news."

Silence on the line, quivering breathing. I don't blame her, I loved Robert like a brother, but that doesn't make him  _my_ brother. I've known him most of my life, but I wasn't born and raised with him. Blood is a different kind of kinship. Rob's parents are assholes, but his family isn't quite so disjointed as mine; he and his sister had a normal, loving sibling relationship. No matter how much I cared for Rob, it will never be the same as what she's feeling.

"When-" There's a pause and a deep breath. "When was the last time you spoke to him? Did you see him before..."

Now it's my turn for my breath to hitch. I feel tears prickling at my eyes and I can't help it, one falls. I don't know about his parents, but Monica knows Rob worked for me over here. They spoke a few times a month, to my knowledge. I don't know what to say. I don't want to make something up, say, "Yeah, I saw him that night. We had a drink and watched movies at my apartment." Even though I know those words will make her feel better, I tell the truth. "Actually, we had a fight about something stupid. We were angry with each other and I hadn't spoken with him in a few weeks. Its not fair."

I don't mean for that last bit to come tumbling out, but it does, and I have to wipe at my face to soak up a few more renegade tears. I can hear her softly crying on the other end, and feel sorry I've said anything, but it makes me feel better than lying would have. I got her brother killed, she deserves as much truth as I can spare. Finally, I'm able to ask, "When's the funeral?"

She sniffles, and there's a dry rustling I assume is her wiping off her phone. "That's the worst part, Lacie. The police aren't done with their investigation, and since they have to ship him back, it will be at least a week."

That's what a lot of people don't know about questionable deaths; there's a lot of work and paper you have to go through before you actually get a body. Add the fact that the family is overseas, and you're looking at a pretty horrible waiting period. One where you have nothing to do but sit around and think about what's happened, because you can't make most of the preparations until you know when you'll be getting your body back. It's not like when an old person dies, or someone is sick and you can get it all over with in a few days. "I'm so sorry, Monica. I know that doesn't help, and you're going to be hearing it a lot, but I will do everything I can to make this run smoothly."

"Thanks, Lacie. That means so much. I know how close Robert was to you, and I'm... I'm sorry for you too. I'm sorry for the both of us."

That did it. I'm crying for real now, and all I can try to do is not heave. My nose is already clogging with the effort. She's crying too, so all it is is two girls sobbing on the phone to one another for a while. "It's just, I don't know how we're going to pay for all of this, with shipping him back, and the funeral. Its going to be tens of thousands of dollars, and my parents are bankrupt. They won't give up the house and it's hemoraging money. They're so stubborn."

That I can believe, but am still surprised to hear they've gone bankrupt. I wonder how my parents' money has faired over the years and failing economy. I don't care though, not really. I don't need their money any more. "I can help you guys pay for it Monica, it's the least I can-"

"No. I can't let you do that, Lacie. You've already done so much for Robert. He was so happy there, working with you. My parents are too pig headed to let you help anyways."

Sighing, I wonder if there's a way for me to change her mind, but in the end I know its up to his mother and father, and she's probably right about their egos getting in the way of letting a childhood friend help pay for their son's funeral. "Okay. Please keep me updated, Monica."

 

I return from my last minute Dr's Appointment; he removed the sling but gave me removable pressure casts to wear, told me there's no major damage, and to take it easy. When I'm settled, I try to do normal things; make myself some tea, feed Moshi, but find out that its harder than I want it to be. I don't try to make myself food, I couldn't eat right now if I wanted to. I realize I haven't showered since I got home, I'd just put clean clothes on. Stripping, I enter my shower, turning the heat up as high as I can stand it. My arms and legs are burning, turning red, but I can't care less. I smooth my hair back, turning my face toward the water, and start to think. Think about my last conversation with Robert, not on the phone, but in person. _"I don't think I need you anymore,"_ I'd said. My breath catches in my throat, and I'm already crying again. Taking a shower was a bad idea. I thought about the kiss, the look in his eyes; he was so furious, so hurt. _"I love you, Lace. Just let me protect you."_

He called me and said he had important news, which I would never know the contents of now, then I didn't speak to him for weeks. In the course of those weeks, he'd been kidnapped, had his finger cut off, and had probably been tortured beyond that. Then they killed him and dumped his body for James to find. Not only had I been robbed of the chance to say goodbye to him, to apologize, I hadn't even seen his body. Do I want to? What purpose would that serve, except to make me feel shittier? Closure. I deserve it; not the closure, the pain of knowing what I got him into. For the first time in a long time, I cry for real. Its long overdue. I heave and sob until I collapse into the corner on the tile, and curl my legs into myself. I'm rubbing at my face out of habit to no avail, the tears and water are all the same now. I have done this; regardless of James' being evasive about his involvement. Robert's death is 100% my doing. My chest hurts and I can't stand it. It takes all of the energy I have left to actually shower; wash my hair, face, and body. I'm sobbing the whole time. Robert was my closest friend; he had been in love with me, and my lack of willingness to reciprocate those feelings doesn't change anything. He'd been right, I kept him around for that safe fuzzy feeling of support, that feeling that he wanted me without strings. As much as I hate to admit that to myself, a part of me had known the whole time. I used him, and I will never be able to forgive myself, ever. 

The water ceases, and I don't bother to put a towel on my hair, just dry my body enough to not be dripping and throw panties on and an old shirt to sleep in. Lights off, and I'm in bed, after having taken double or more my prescribed dose of sleeping aid; and I just hurt. I pretend that I'll feel better when I wake up, but I know I won't. The only thing I can take comfort in is sleep itself, the only short period of time where I don't have to think, don't have to feel anything. I've conceded to this, accepted that I only have a short period of time before I have more work to do, more feelings to face, and that's fine with me. I'll take what I can get.

 

If I dreamed of anything, I don't remember it. I just wake up feeling extremely hungover on my drugs. Rubbing my eyes, I look around. The light from the windows is lower than it should be. Panicking, I reach for my phone to see what time is it. 5PM, the day after I'd laid down. I've slept for over 24 hours.  _Shit._ It's not like I don't need the sleep; I do, but there's too much in the air right now to indulge in that kind of nap. Then it hits me, like I knew it would. The weight of everything. It's an abridged pain, because to me, I've only just been in the shower crying, it wasn't 24 hours ago, it feels like it's only been a few minutes. So much for my mind being able to be rest during sleep. I blink a few times, try to focus harder on my phone's screen. Greta has called again, _double shit_. I forgot get back to her yesterday. It's not like I wasn't distracted, but still. Then, my eyes catch the little message icon in the header of my phone's desktop. I click on it, throat constricting when I see it's from James.

_"Are you okay?"_

No Kitten, no Lace, no Babe, or any of the other terms of endearment he usually uses. Just, "Are you okay?" What am I supposed to say to that? I feel like shit; scratch that. I feel worse than I think I've ever felt, worse even than when I was blaming myself for Ashley. A part of me knows there is nothing I could have done to save her, her death was her own doing, this on the other hand, was not. In my half-awake grogginess, I text back, _"That's the most infantile question you've ever asked me."_

I take a second or two to congratulate myself for being coherent enough to even type that. It's the little things you have to feel good about.

_"I would like to talk to you."_

That is honestly the last thing I want to do right now. I still don't know if I can see his face without having a meltdown, and talking about it would only be worse.

_"I don't think I can, James. Not today."_

I lift my hand to my face, rubbing away the salt from sweat and tears. I'm just lucky the blood is gone. What's there to say? Does he want to apologize? Saying "I'm sorry" isn't going to fix any of this, and I don't know if I'd believe him anyways.

_"I know I don't deserve it, but it's important."_

Goddammit. I can't take any more tragedies or emergencies right now. Signing, I massage my temples and think about it. Fine, but as soon as he's done flapping his mouth I'm leaving.

_"Whatever. I'm driving myself. Are you at the house?"_

He replies that he's actually at the first hotel he'd taken me to. Good, at least we won't be too far from the public. I really don't want to be any more alone with him than I have to. Forcing myself to roll out of bed, I throw on some yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a hoodie, then brush my teeth and hair. I don't bother tying it up, because I want to get this over with. I put my essentials into a wristlet; I don't need to worry about a purse if I have to make a quick getaway, and shove it in my pocket. I try not to think or worry on the drive, this is just another chore on the to-do list. Do I even want to see James any more? The most logical option would be to cut and run, shut the side business down, or leave it to someone more fit for the upkeep, and tell James to stay away from me. Will I, though? Will my attraction and connection to that small, dark, fallen Angel be too much to defeat logic? With my past behavior concerning him, probably not. _Fuck._

I arrive at my destination, and am acutely aware of how much I do not look like I belong here. _No fucks._ The receptionist, who before, had greeted me with a toothy smile and politeness, now gives me a judgmental once-over, and hands me the keycard when I name-drop James. I let myself into his Penthouse, and find him on the Chaise Lounge just outside the bedroom within a sitting area. His back is to me, and he doesn't turn when I enter. I can hear a tinny noise that ends up being an old AM/FM radio, emitting what sounded to me like soft, crooning noises of the 40's, and I realize he's smoking indoors. I don't know why that surprises me, it's his Penthouse, and it's not like he can't afford to have it detailed when he stops needing it. Keys and wristlet in pocket, I approach and sit on the couch adjacent to him. His eyes are closed, face turned upward, and I'm immediately reminded of the night he slammed me against a wall in the rose garden. The look was the same, only he doesn't seem quite so pleased now. I light one of his cigarettes, then snag the liquor filled glass in front of me and shoot it down. I'm mid-exhale with my legs crossed and my face cradled in my hand before he says anything. His eyelids flutter open as he taps his ash away. His voice is the last word in neutrality. "I wont bother asking if you're feeling better, but I will tell you that you look well, considering."

Oh, please. I look like backwash and we both know it. The only improvement is that I'm not covered in blood and grime anymore. Staring at him, I'm reflecting his neutrality with some of my own. "Thank you, James, that's sweet. You said there's something important?"

 _"I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart,"_ fills out the pregnant pause that ensues.

He nods, taps again, and he's looking at me, but not at my eyes. I hate that. If I can see your eyes, I can see what I need to. When someone is looking in other places than your face, it's a tell for most people when they're lying; but I doubt James is that easy. You just can't see what they're thinking. When they meet your eyes, they are most certainly focusing on what they're saying, but if they don't, you don't have any insight to their thoughts. James does it all the time though, when he's searching for something, something not within my head, so all it does is remind me of how unsettling I find its occurance, and don't count it as red flags. "Saying sorry for what happened to your Robert would be insensitive of me. I've already said my piece about his abduction; I didn't know where he was. Almost all of my resources were...unavailable, at the time."

I raise an eyebrow. He's being evasive, but what's new about that? The question now is, what's the evasiveness for? "How did you find him?"

He sighs, but doesn't look surprised, like he had anticipated my questioning. "It was a lot easier to garner Intel in person, after I returned."

I probably should have thought of that, and the explanation is oddly satisfying. It isn't one of the phony excuses I'd come up for him to use, all of which would have triggered my "bullshit" alarms, if spoken.

He snuffs out his tar. "Is there anything you want to know?"

"What do you mean?" I know what he means. I just don't know the answer yet. 

He's speaking to me like a counselor would speak to a troubled child, but his face is still gravely blank. "Do you want any details? I'm prepared to give them, if need be."

And there it is. I take the bottle of gin on the table, refilling our glasses. I've already weighed the options on that matter. Do I deserve the details, yes. Do I want to hear them, no. I know if he tells me it will break me beyond repair, even at its lightest. Knowing everything that was done to Robert will maim me in an irrevocable way. I'm silent for quite some time, thinking, but finally make up my mind. Barely a whisper, "No. Take that to your grave, if you ever die, that is. I don't want it in mine."

He looks down, back up, nods, and we simultaneously drink; it reads like some kind of pact. A coincidental action that says, "Don't tell me, now let's drink on it."

I take another sip, and glance at the time. "Is that all you need to say?"

No words, but he looks like there's something he does want to divulge. I give him a minute or two, but if he's not talking, he's wasting my time, and I don't want to look at him any longer than need be. Staring at James ceased ending well a long time ago.  _"I've lost all ambition for worldly acclaim, I just want to be the one you love. And with your admission that you feel the same, I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of."_

When the verse ends, I get up and walk past him, toward the exit. "Goodbye, James."

_"I don’t want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart."_

My hand is on the doorknob and I freeze. Should I tell him to leave me alone, or trust him to simply do so after this conversation? Before I can decide, he's behind me. I'd been too distracted to hear him get up; I don't move or turn around. "I'm covering the costs. All of it. The funds have already transferred."

I gasp, not letting it out, and spin around. My eyes are wide and his are tired, no longer neutral. "Are you kidding me?!"

My mind is racing once again. How did he know that the finances for the funeral were in question, how did he get Robert's parents to agree, did he do it out of concern, or a guilty conscience? _Ha._ James' conscience, right. Seeming to pick up on at least one question, he says, "The family was told that it was a gift of good faith from our country to theirs; they weren't able to close the case, so its the least they can do. Its a practice that's actually not unheard of, when important families are involved. Not that they would question it in any case, they were looking for an excuse to have the money handed to them without damaging their social standing. It even caters to their egos, in a way."

Air-tight. How does he always manage to make me believe him when I don't want to? My hands are balled into fists, shaking, painfully so on my injured arm. "Why did you do that?"

He places a hand on each of my arms, and it makes me want to jump away, but I don't. "Because I knew it was one thing I had the power to do that will help." 

My hands move up to his arms, his shoulders, and I'm trying to shake him, but it just looks like I'm awkwardly pushing his upper body around. "Why would you do that?"

My eyes are welling up and I don't know why. I had been so mad at him, so ready to say, "Fuck off goodbye," then he goes and pulls the rug out from under my feet. The angry wind that fueled me before is gone; it's turned to something else. My hands are on his face now, pressing as hard as they can. "WHY DID YOU HAVE TO FUCKING DO THAT?"

His face screws up, and in an instant his lips and body crash to mine; I feel pain with the doorknob pressing against my back. His mouth opens, and I consume it with my lips and tongue before he can even try to do so to me. I feel so desperate for this, I know I don't want to, but my body disagrees. It's my body that misses him, wants this to be right again, and I'm too crushed to fight it, so I give all in. I give all in because even if it's wrong, it feels too good for me to care. "Goddammit," I murmur into his mouth, hands at the collar of his shirt, tugging it down. He pulls away, and he's looking at my eyes now. He looks like a feral child, eyes large, features distressed. "I want you to love me, Lace. Can you love me?"

I'm confused, but my body is still on fire. Not, "I love you, Lace." He'd said, "I want you to love me." What does that even mean? I don't know what to say, and he looks frantic in my silence, hands grasping my face tightly. I look strait into his eyes, and I just know. I know what he meant when he'd said, _"You're the kind of woman I'd burn for. I'd burn, and burn, and I'd want you to be there to see it."_

This is James on fire, truly crashing and burning, and this is me, not putting him out. This is me watching him burn, and it's beautiful. Shaking my head, I whisper, "No."

My actions contradict that word when I find his mouth, teeth and lips clawing at him again; I don't know if I'll ever stop missing the way he tastes. Apparently either my answer was enough, or it didn't bother him that it wasn't, because he's dragging me with him toward the bed. We fall down and clothes come off, victim to shaking, furious hands and fingers. We roll onto our sides, and I've got his head clasped between my hands, still trying to disappear into oblivion through his mouth. 

Nerve endings respond like electricity when I feel him reach down and push his fingers into me, and I can't help throwing my head back with a gasp. His teeth find my exposed neck while he continues pressing his fingers and grinding his hips. He's sucking so hard it hurts, but it's hard to feel it right now. I push his arm away from me and take his length in my hands; he's so swollen I can almost taste his cock in my mouth, and I pull it toward the void his fingers left within me. With a shrug of his hips he's inside, and sounds tear out of us both like animals. 

He holds my leg propped around him with a thigh in one hand, and pushes his body into mine furiously. We're staring at each other, heavy-lidded, and I realize this is the closest we've ever be during sex. Faces so near, bodies fitting together so nicely; I'm able to look at him closely while he furiously rocks himself inside and out of me, and I truly see his desperation, his need, like I never have before, even the last time at my apartment. The longer I think about it, the longer I focus on those confusing words, I become more and more lost in our bodies. James' eyes are closed and he's not thumbing, but moving three fingers in circles around my center. A breath catches in the middle of a moan and it sounds like I'm choking. 

All trains of thought disappear into nothing when the electricity forces me over, and I scream, writhing against James, clawing at his body. It lasts a sinfully long time, and I feel him moving faster, pacing rapid but shallow. When he comes it shakes me, shakes us both, and God, I love the feeling of him spilling all he has into my body. He's panting so hard, I can't imagine how he manages to summon words. "Can you love me?"

It takes me a moment to register what he's said, to be coherent enough to think anything at all. Our chests slow, calming down after the storm. James' eyes are so dark, so insistent, that I can barely focus on them. "No." I shake my head so hard it strains my neck. "No."

 

James is un-moving when I wake up. Still too tired for reason and thoughts, I rinse myself off in his shower. Pulling all my clothes back on, I plod to the kitchenette and put coffee on, like it's any other day. Before the old fashioned pot is done leaking, my phone begins to vibrate hard enough to crawl out of its captive pocket. The ringing is faint in my half sleepy head. Before looking at the number, I swipe the screen and say, "Hello?"

"Ms. Azalea? This is Greta. I need to talk to you."

Mind scrabbling to put context, thoughts, and sound into action, I grab the pot and pour it into a mug, snagging the pack of cigarettes from the table; only when I've had a sip of coffee and a drag do I answer. "Greta. Sorry I missed your calls. What is it?"

"Thank God it's you, Ms. Azalea. I didn't know what to do with your lack of response. I'm glad you're okay."

Another sip and drag. "Like I said, I'm sorry. What is it?"

She clears her throat before attempting to speak, then sighs. "I'm sorry about what happened to Robert."

No emotions, no freezes, no nothing; I'm just waiting for her to continue.

"Listen, this is going to sound insane but trust me, every word of it is true. I checked."

I highly doubt anything she has to say will strike me as "insane" right now. The bar is awful high.

"Robert knew something was up. He knew that you were in danger. He told me that he was going to fix it, and that if he didn't come back, not to look for him. I did anyways, of course, but that's not the point."

The high-pitched way her voice is resonating makes me wonder what is. "He told me if he didn't come back, to tell you this. He wrote it down and said not to read it unless I knew he was d-dead."

What kind of security professional gets this emotional? Greta had initially come off to me as a very serious character with no taste for wit or polite conversation. What has her so shaken? 

"It said that James Moriarty lied to you. Rob said that James lied when he said he wanted to help you. Moriarty is a political problem solver, he swoops in and erases what he's told for money. He's done awful things, things that have been covered up and swept away. He kills people for a living, very important people."

All I hear is, "James lied when he said he wanted to help you," and, "He erases what he's told for money." My brain is already piecing it together, figuring out the awful and lengthy equation in its trajectory. I already know the punchline, I'm just waiting for her to relay it to me.

"James was hired by the head of the Traffickers to get rid of you. He's been contracted to kill you."

White, sparkling hot heat puts spots in front of my eyes, pushes against the seams of my head as it tries to finish the puzzle. James, walking into my office, chewing gum. James showing up at the first event, catching me off guard. All of it was one elaborate game with very decorative pieces. Everything was a game to James. He was bored, hired to get rid of some random enemy of his "employer." Had James ever been employed by anyone? No, no, he's always in control. He was bored, so he made it a game. He made  _me_ a game. Could it all truly be that simple?

"Ms. Azalea?"

Catatonic, my voice is scratchy and raw, coffee and cigarette long since abandoned. "Yeah."

"Look, after heard what had happened to Rob, I threatened every rat to kingdom come for answers, and what I heard is what convinced me that his letter wasn't all some kind of pissed off, love-sick rambling." I hear a grassy noise, like paper crumpling in a fist. "I found out when Rob left, he went to go confront this Moriarty guy. Christ, I don't know what he was thinking."

Robert went to confront James?  _Alone?_ If what he'd written was true, then that action was literally suicide. Maybe he had it figured out; somehow planned for backup, for victory. Motives didn't matter, he had lost.

"They had eyes on him and then he disappeared, probably into some unmarked warehouse. I don't know how long he was there, but one of the guys that kept him locked up sold him out to Gerome Alvarez. He wanted Rob and offered more money, so the bastards fucking _handed_  Robert to those Goddamn barbarians."

Slow, slow, slow. Just absorb it all one chit at a time. James had been lying. He knew what happened to Robert the whole time, and he lied. I laugh, and it it's out loud, because it rings through my head while I process. The "business" James had been on the first night we slept together was to lock Robert up for knowing his secrets; James knowing he'd tell me the truth, tell me like James never did. Somewhere in between, James' "hole in security" had sold Rob to Alvarez to threaten me, then James went away for longer to get rid of him and tie up loose ends. It was a comedy of errors; James was hired to kill me, but couldn't get out of his own restless head when he realized I'd be fun to play with, and it backfired so spectacularly that in the end he killed Gerome, in an ironic Ouroborus of a situation. How the kingdoms come crashing down. "Is that so?"

I'm number than I've ever been; with Ashley, with Robert, or otherwise. Compartmentalization is futile when all the containers start to leak into each other and bleed similar colors. James lied to me. I called him on it, and he still didn't give up. You get one chance to lie to me. One chance, and if I still don't believe you, you better hope your next sentence is the final answer. James has torn that line to shreds in every which way, and he's going to be really sorry he did. I fell for that fucker, breathed him in, buried myself inside of him, because of how desperate his mind, presence, and body made me feel. He's taken away from me the one thing I held above all; above my morality, beauty, accomplishments. He's taken away my sense of self, and insulted both my intelligence and intuition, my grasp on _me,_ and its the worst thing anyone has ever done to me in my whole life. Well, what the fuck to do now? 

"I'm gonna have to call you back, Greta."


	19. Chapter 19

I don't move for several minutes, I just sit, clutching my phone, and shake. I don't know if its from the chill of the low hanging clouds, or if its because my mind is trying so hard to put all of this together. Looking back, it all makes sense; or most of it, anyways. Isn't that one of the ultimate ironies of the human condition? You never see it coming until the twist has been handed to you, like in a movie. Then when you have it, you're scrambling to look back at all the seemingly innocuous events that tie it all together and make it real, even if you don't want it to be. If you're smart, a part of you senses that something is off the whole time, but it isn't always enough to save you. It isn't for me.

I am- well, I was, sleeping with a man who not only could have killed me with no repercussions; he was being paid to, and he caused the death of one of my dearest friends. So what changed his mind? Can it really be boiled down to narcissistic boredom? I feel like if that's the case, he would have eventually grown tired of me and done his job. Instead, he derailed the whole operation, and it ended in far more casualties than if he had just gotten rid of me. Why did he allow this whole thing to go up in flames the way it has?

None of it matters, because I'm so angry, hurt, and betrayed in a way I've only ever been subjected to by my parents; and even what they have done seems to pale in comparison. With some effort, I rise from my seat and reenter the hotel room. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do, because I haven't thought that far ahead yet.

I look around and James is at the kitchenette, looking for something in the cabinets. Continuing his search he says over his shoulder, "Well you're up awful early, Kitten."

All I can hear or feel is my pulse and heartbeat escalating in tandem with the rapid thoughts bouncing around in my head. When I don't answer, he glances back at me, curious eyebrows furrowing upward. I'm trying to keep my breath steady and clear my head, because I really don't need to start hyperventilating right now. When he finally turns, he studies my face; really studies it for the first time since I walked in the room. I have no idea what he saw there, but when his eyes go glassy and his face sets in that unreadable frown, I know he knows. We stand, regarding one another, when I finally find my voice. "Did you ever think about it?"

His words are careful, and something cracks in his frown for a split second; maybe he's not so sure I've found out. "Did I ever think about what, Kitten?"

I set my phone down, cross my arms, and smile. Its not really a smile, more like a severe stretch of mouth that makes your cheekbones ache. Its a very specific smile; one that can only be attained if you are damn near angrier than you've ever been up to that point, and you know you're not the one who's in trouble. "Did you ever think about going through with it when we were together? Did you ever imagine murdering me while we were fucking in some town car, or hotel, or elevator? Did it turn you on that I had no idea that you're the goddamned Devil, or how decadently easy it would have been for you to finish your job?"

He's eerily still, and if he's thinking of anything, I will never be able to tell what it is, because he has shut me out so completely. "Who told you, Lacie?"

My heart skips a beat when I realize I may have put Greta in danger. I'm too furious to think about it right now. "Answer the question, James."

He looks down, smiles, as if remembering something pleasing, and I think he laughs a little; a short lived, tinkling noise I barely hear. When he looks back up his mouth is twisted into a grimace, like he can't figure out an appropriate way to feel. "Of course I did."

It catches me off guard, but not just the words. His face is so torn, like he doesn't know whether he's miserable or pleased with himself. I don't know how to respond, but I'm fuming. "You're the reason that Robert is dead. You lied to me."

He shrugs with one shoulder, and he's looking at me the same way he did when he told me I was damaged, but somehow still nonchalant, like we we're talking about a movie or a story; not about something he's actually done. "You were happy. If I'd let him tell you my secret, it would have made you very upset."

I want to laugh. Happy? None of it has been real. It's all just a pretty fantasy in my head now. So why do I still miss it? "Not half as upset as I am right now."

How am I keeping so calm? Is it because James is doing so with no effort? No, its because I need answers more than I need to hurt him right now. 

"I don't like it when people touch my things, Kitten. He hurt you by being so selfish."

His things?! Is that what I am? Like he picked me out at a garage sale, took me for a ride, and set me in a China cabinet on display? God, this just keeps getting worse, worse than him just be a lying snake; this man is a fucking psychopath. I know he's always been good at hiding his feelings when his face doesn't betray him, but its becoming harder and harder to imagine he feels anything at all.

"What are you?"

Its the only thing I can think to say. Of course there are plenty of other things I want to say, to ask, but I don't know if I can stand to hear the answers. He drags his fingers delicately along the counter as he moves around it, and I realize he's still shirtless, muscles clenching with every step. "Hard to say. I'm a lot of things."

He takes a step toward me, and I stand my ground defiantly. "I'm a man," another step forward, and my breath is quickening with every word. "I'm a consultant, and problem solver," he's moving painfully slow, and I feel that instead of staying still out of pride, I'm frozen because I couldn't move even if I wanted to anymore. "Sometimes a problem causer," grinning, he's close enough to touch me now, but his arms remain neutral. His face falls from joy to absolute seriousness when he finishes his monologue, and stops just shy of our bodies touching. "And for all intents and purposes, I. Am. _GOD_!"

The volume of his voice makes me stumble backward, his eyes are so wide, maniacle, and he's laughing now, arms raised as if introducing himself to someone. "I'm God, and you're my little Kitten."

I shake my head furiously, fear dissipating as fast as it had come to me. "No, James, I'm not your anything. I never was. I don't want you to so much as think about me for the rest of your life. Don't speak to me, don't look at me, and don't you ever come near me again."

He raises his hands, palms facing me. "Lacie, Baby, be reasonable."

I have to get out of here, but that's not where my head is right now. I should have shot this evil son of a bitch when I had the chance. I glance to the little table I'd set my phone down on, but there's nothing I can use as a weapon. He sees my eyes cut to it and back, but doesn't move. Shit. Before I know it, one of my more embarassing and pressing questions escapes me. "Did you mean any of the things you said to me? Was any of it real, or was it all just a game?"

For the first time in the conversation, he looks surprised. Had it really not occurred to him that I might ask something like that? He's thinking, and I can see it on his face. For just a moment, he looks sad, and very confused, but its fleeting, and anyone else wouldn't have noticed. "I'm not sure."

The hole in my chest tears wider, just when I think that could never be possible. I've already come to peace with being attached to James, but until now I never really grasped the severity. After everything he's done this shouldn't hurt so bad, but it does. I want this to be fake; a dream, an act, I don't care. I just don't want it to be real. "There's one thing I am sure of, though."

He grabs my good arm and my throat constricts with panic. His eyes are wild, and for once, I'm scared of them. Leaning in until our noses are just this side of touching, he finishes his sentence. "I'm not going to lose you, Lacie."

My eyes cut to the table again and he lunges forward, but I'm half a second ahead of him; twisting out of his grasp and pulling the little table's drawer of its tracks, I swing it around and make splintering contact with the side of his face. It snaps to the side, and I grab my phone, running for the door. I can hear him moving behind me and then the ground is gone. He grabs me by the legs and pulls us both down, and my head cracks against the carpet with a sickening thud. I'm dizzy and my face aches, but I'm using all of my upper body strength to try and crawl.

Before I can get away, he's yanking me toward him by my hips, twisting me around and pinning my arms over my head. I cry out from the pressure he's putting on my cast, and surprisingly, he let's up, but not enough for me to move it. "I meant what I said last night." 

My heart is pounding, and the only thing I can think about is how to get out from under him. He has the advantage; I'm pinned by most of his body weight and partially disabled. I try to sound as calm as I can. "Let go of me, James."

He tilts his head upward, laughing, and looks back down at me with an open mouthed grin. "Why so eager to leave, Kitten? I thought you enjoyed being with me."

I'm trying to clear my head and figure a way out of this situation. Glancing at our bodies, I search for a weak point in his hold on me. I go completely still, which usually makes the aggressor subconciously weaken their grasp so their bodies can rest. It's a long shot with him, but maybe. "Because looking at you makes me sick, you _FUCKING_ sociopath!"

I take my opening and draw one of my knees from between his legs, rear back, and shove my foot as hard as I can into his stomach and solar plexus, catching his face with the knee on accident. He doesn't move far, but its enough for me to get back up and run while he's out of breath. 

"LACIE!"

For whatever reason I stop, and the only thing keeping me from bolting is that he hasn't moved toward me, other than standing up. I turn; his mouth is bleeding, cheek on one side already beginning to swell. He's breathing like he just came up for air from underwater, and he's so fucking mad. His mouth is twisted and turned downward, eyes still wild. "I'm not going to lose you, Lace," he repeats himself, and I can't help but feeling like I did when I left him standing alone after Robert died. Like I belong here, like leaving him is somehow wrong. How did I not see how deep in I am? I hate him for what he's done to me. I never want to see his face again, but not just because I'm angry; because if I don't make a clean break I might never get away from this man. "I can't believe I let you do this to me."

He's still not moving, and neither am I. I don't know why I'm stuck in place, but with James, isn't that the problem? Hasn't that been the case the whole time? He takes a step forward and I shake my head, backing up into the door. "Don't come near me. I never want to fucking see you again."

His face is again torn between a smile and a frown, and he moves toward me again. "There's nowhere you can go where I won't find you, Lacie, and I will. I'll find you."

All it takes is that smiling shrug, that shrug that says, "Sorry, that's the way it is," and I'm out the door. I move as fast as I can with my arm and my head pounding, and don't relax even when I realize he's not following me. 

I'm in my car and trying not to have an anxiety attack. What am I going to do? I have to get out of here, run as fast as I can and never look back. I almost blow through a red light, recieving more than a few angry honks, and it snaps me out of my fear. Okay, calm down, think. Robert's funeral will give me an excuse to get out of the country, and while that's a good excuse for Kerri and whoever I leave my obligations to, James will still know exactly where I am. 

He wouldn't dare interfere with the funeral. He wouldn't dare. A day ago, I would have believed that, but now I don't know. I have no idea what he'll do, why he won't just let me leave, why he had to do any of this in the first place. I call Greta and tell her to meet me at my apartment, asking her to bring more than just herself. She doesn't ask any questions, and its such a relief, because I have no idea what I would even say if she did.


	20. Chapter 20

James and I were walking hand in hand down in some park whose name escapes me, enjoying the rare lovely weather with companionable silence. A few children were playing on a rickety looking structure meant to be a boat; their parents "watched" them off to the side, glued to their phones with catatonic eyes. James tugged my arm and my head snapped toward him, surprised. He lead us to a painted wood picnic table that had seen better days. Normally, I wouldn't have agreed to being so out in the open with him, but we'd ventured a bit out of bounds, and I had tweaked my appearance in just a way that I'd be hard pressed to get a second glance. I realized James must have been talking, but all I could focus on was the kids playing, with their sticky faces and chubby little fingers, while their parents browsed their childrens' lives away. "You know, I rather like your hair like that."

I barely heard him, too engrossed in blissfull reminiscience. "Do you remember being that young?"

I could hear the befuddled laughter on his face, even with mine still zoned out on the now deserted playground; I had no idea how long I'd been staring at ghosts chasing each other. "What do you mean?"

I turn my head, body still hesitant to let go of the picture I'd created in front of me. "Do you have any real memories of just playing like that?"

I only had one. It was the day after my 13th birthday; the day after only one or two friends had shown up to a party I carefully planned. I was never unpopular in Elementary and Jr. High, but I was most certainly not popular either. Caught in the middle of the spectrum, my social life resided in preteen limbo. If you were unpopular, you got rewarded with a cult following of real friends to stick with you. The "cool" kids, were what everyone gossiped about and wanted to be, so of course they were ever surrounded by people. I existed as the worst thing that anyone can say about someone at that age; forgettable.

On this particular day, my mother was trying to remedy my foul disposition, so she took me to the park to hike and hunt for bugs. Not actual "hiking" really, just walking along bicycle trails in areas with heavy foliage. I loved bugs when I was young, I never found them foul or repugnant, and actually liked picking up and interacting with them. Afterward, with some prodding, I convinced her to play with me on the big plastic castle with purple and yellow slides, just outside of the hiking trail.

Under no normal circumstances would my mother ever have let me do tomboyish things like those, let alone be seen with me, participating. It meant so much to me that she let all of the totalitarian débutante bullshit drop for my sake. The day after my 13th birthday was the last one I ever saw her truly smile, and it was the last time I can remember really loving my mother.

James hadn't spoken for a few moments, and he looked like he was concentrating very hard on the playground, like he could see the Polaroid of the children I'd taken in my mind. I couldn't decide whether to say anything or not, so I just watched clouded shadows of memories play on his ever changing features while he thought whatever he was thinking. "James?"

His gaze remained a second longer until, shaking his head nonchalantly, he looked down. "I don't suppose I do, then."

His answer made me feel sad and a bit chilly, despite the balmish breeze. The sun was in one of those hard to miss phases just before it sets. With its last breath, it blazed brighter through the trees than it had all day. 

I squeezed James' hand in mine and pulled us toward the looming ship of plastic and rubber. Letting it go, I ran unabashed up the steps that were far too tiny for me, even as a smaller adult. I used the monkey bar at the top to swing off of my feet and on to the main platform, breathless from the effort of what I used to spend hours a day doing when my mother thought I was studying or having dinner with a friend; children who were just as socially repressed by growing up with rich, unsympathetic parents. I guess we were all trying to get away.

When I looked down, James was gazing up at me blankly with his hands in their pockets. I could hear him softly rolling his gum around between his teeth and tongue. Grinning, I decided to give him some incentive. After a quick glance to make sure there were no lingering tots or guardians, I hiked a leg over one of the little barriers to keep children from falling off of the play structure. James cocked an eyebrow, not quite smiling. With graceful flare, I spread my fingers wide and gathered the hem of my sundress in my hand, causing it to bunch around my upper knee. He was smiling now, and took a few steps toward me. The delicate brush of fabric on bare skin as I inched my skirt higher and higher up my leg tickled my nerve endings in a fluttering way.

James spat his gum out and slow-jogged toward me, leaping up and grabbing the edge of the ship's platform until his feet were dangling off the ground. I giggled and scampered away before he could pull the rest of his body up. When he caught me I was just shy of escaping him down a large plastic curly slide. He grabbed my arm halfway, and I cried out, laughing as he drew me toward him, and when his body began to sink too, he let out a kind of awkward squeal. It was hard for me to grapple with him while laughing at the ridiculous noise he'd just made. The increase of ease I'd allowed myself with James was unmatched and long forgotten. When we were together I never had to worry about appearances, exclusivity, propriety, or clout. I could just  _be,_ in a way I hadn't since that afternoon with my mother. 

I lost my grip and started to slide, grasping at James' pants and pulling him down with me. We ended up with our feet hanging out of the the thing, clutching at each other and trying not to fall on the prickly shredded substrate below us. James eyes were alight; fully engaged, and it was so stunning. Lifting only my head, with my arms and hands crushed at awkward angles, I tried to kiss him and missed, bumping my nose awkwardly into his clavicle. He collapsed on me and we fell from the slide in spite of our desperate attempts at scaling back up the inside. Ending up in a heap on the ground, we just laid there and laughed for a while, as if we really had been children innocently playing together on a warm day.

 

I'm trying and failing to stay awake on the flight back home. Greta, on the other hand, is alert, attending to a large word-search booklet. I requested that she come with me to Texas as my personal bodyguard. Her presence would explain her away as my PA, and give excuse for her to be at the funeral itself. Part of it really is because I need watchful, trustworthy eyes with me right now; I would never try bringing any of my retainers now, because I can't trust them, and I definitely don't trust James. The remainder of reason for Greta's company is my knowing that she wants to pay her respects to Robert, but would never proposition coming herself.

With no small amount of anguish, I left The Azalea Group's affairs in the hands of my dear friend Angelica, whom I saw most recently at the Holmes' event. She demurely accepted, but I'm smart enough to know how much taking the helm of my day-to-day means to her. Being chosen as interim Ms. Azalea is indeed a bragging right, and will surely accelerate her already glossy reputation higher still. I had to make a tough decision regarding the Traffickers; as much as it hurts my pride, I had to give the order to scale operations back, at least in my absence. I haven't completely abandoned it as a lost cause, despite the doubts and danger; I merely instructed my team to hibernate the bells and whistles. Now their main objective will be to help out the girls who come to them in small ways; medical attention when needed, food, and most importantly of all, people they can trust not to betray them. It isn't what I want for them, but it's all I have to give right now. I've lost enough on this holy-rolling crusade, and I'm not willing to gamble any more innocent lives on it. Such would be grossly unfair to anyone involved. I entrusted Moosh's care to Helena, and if it were any other person I'd be worried. Helena and Moosh have the same personality; aloof, independent, and quite prissy. I know she'll take good care of him, and being with someone who actually has time to pay him attention will be a nice change of pace. It's hard to leave it all behind.

I'm so emotionally hungover I can't think strait. Its all a crumbling, muddled mess in my head, and I know the worst is far from over. The roof flying off of the past few months of my life is weighing down on me like a sinking stone I can't quite keep up with. Its not strings of coherent thought, its my brain trying to work it all out a mile a minute, and it materializes only as disjointed memories, colors, and voices; still fraying the corners belonging to pieces of a puzzle I didn't construct. Anger and confusion had come first, then bewildered horror of a kind I have heretofore been unfamiliar with. All that's left is a kind of stricken mourning; we're thousands of miles away from the real funeral, but I feel like I'm wading aimlessly in the wake of everything that used to make me happy. Its a sick pit that fills my whole torso, making my chest ache, stomach clench, and causing me to physically vibrate with the effort it takes to pour through it all.

I'm so embarrassed that I've essentially let a complete villain integrate himself so deeply within my life. He has all the textbook qualifiers; charm, looks, disposable money and resources, insanity, ruthless ambition, and his beautiful mind that keeps it all locked away inside. As ashamed as I am with my sad, blind foolishness, the emotion that consumes me now is just a bottomless oubliette of hurt. James has cast me down into it, smiling and laughing at my descent with no remorse. His erratic behavior makes me think that maybe, somehow, somewhere in that overgrown labyrinth between his ears, he feels something. I want him to feel something, even though I know I'm just projecting to keep myself sane; holding onto an impossible notion of a breach in James' apparent sociopathy.

I feel like one of those victimized wives that refuse to leave their husbands, defending his actions with their own shame and fear. They think one day he'll change and apologize, one day he'll see all she's done for him, and he will melt, breaking the cycle of abuse; but it never happens, so they stay miserable for the rest of their lives. Then they die, and its all over. The fact that I can relate is sickening, because I always told myself that after what I'd experienced at home, I would never allow myself to be one of those women. James hasn't physically abused me; at least not in the context of domestic violence, but that's not what this is about. He's keeping me in a loop of confused misery, even after all of the unforgivable things he's done. I try with marginal success to put him and all related baggage in an extended time out. Monica and Robert are the only ones who both need and deserve my attention right now.

I'm surprised awake by the cabin shaking as the plane lands. I think Greta nearly smiles, but I could be imaging things. Maybe Robert's death really had taken away some of her edge. We rent a car and I'm happy to oblige when she offers to drive. Its late, and I'm not in the best mood.  Even in the dark, the overbearing contrast of landscape between Texas and my current homestead is breathtaking. I grew up here, but spent the majority of my life away from it all; the nostalgic scenery is jarring. When I left, I made no such plans to ever return. Sure, I'd have shown up for my parents' funerals out of hardwired respect, but I never thought I would be back here so soon. None of the reasons I left are social or geographical in nature; I still love Texas just as much as I did when I was young. Its a beautiful and peaceful place in most parts, and though the weather is insufferable a lot of the time, I miss the warmth and sun I previously took for granted. I love the vast visual differences there are between urban and rural areas here. 

Due in large part to the entertainment industry, a lot of people think Texas is all dirt, dead foliage, horses, cowboys, and tumbleweeds; and sure, some of it is. Some of it's worse. Where the majority of the population actually resides, its flip-side of the same weathered coin. Austin, Houston, Dallas, and San Antonio are all places with lush greenery, balmy weather, and people who don't speak with that heavy an accent. I love both poles equally. I will always find crumbling structures, dirt roads, cattle, and dust covered empty storefronts that litter most of the Northwest endearing, even though two-thirds of my time here was spent in cities. The bright lights, towering skylines, museum and art districts, clubs, clothes, and cars are things most people who have never visited don't think apply to the enormous southern state.

When I see the exit we need take to get to the hotel I've booked our stay with, I'm instantly weary. No more long silences lost in my head; time to unpack and get some rest, because I'm going to need everything I have to survive the next few days. Suddenly, Bob Crosby's "Way Back Home" jumps into my train of thought, triggered by some word of a random memory I had just been busy conjuring. Greta shows no interest if she hears me humming it softly while staring blankly at the passing interstate signs.

_"Don't know why I left the homestead, I really must confess. I'm a weary exile, singing my song of loneliness. The roads are the dustiest, the winds are the gustiest, the gates are the rustiest, the pies are the crustiest. The songs the lustiest, the friends the trustiest, Way back home."_

 


	21. Chapter 21

Monica bear hugs me as soon as I enter the enormous estate her parents refuse to give up, even if it means preventing their only son a proper funeral ceremony. Greta decided not to come with me. She wants to go to the funeral, of course, but feels she has no place obstructing the family's privacy.Thankfully, they aren't here; when I called Monica last night to ask what time I should come over, she mentioned they were staying at some friends' cabin so they could "share some alone time to grieve properly". What bullshit. They're running away from their problems and dumping them all on their ill-prepared daughter, who's mourning is just as, if not more severe than theirs, probably in a haze of booze and prescription pills. "Thank you so much for coming, Lacie. I don't think I can do this alone."

I give her a companionable squeeze and she lets go, thankfully before either of us have time to get too emotional. "You know I'd never abandon you, or Robert. Besides, with your parents on their little pity-party vacation, you need all the help you can get."

She sighs deep and nods. "I'm just glad the rest of the family either lives close or insisted on hotels to avoid getting in the way."

Monica tries to make me coffee, but I force her to sit down while I prepare some for us both. We take it out to a second-story balcony overlooking a view other high class homes, and a sprawling bayou crowded with high grass and weeds. We don't speak for a while. There's not really anything to say. I think we're just both mentally preparing ourselves for later, when we have to show up at the funeral home for the viewing. The actual ceremony isn't until tomorrow, but the private viewing is this evening, followed by a public one about an hour later. I really don't want to deal with it until I absolutely have to.

I reach into my pocket and light a cigarette, enjoying the taste of menthol tobacco mingling with strong coffee. There's a reason people have always smoked with the beverage; the flavors mingle in a kind of relaxing way. "I didn't know you still smoked."

I grimace, glancing over at her. "I didn't either, until very recently."

She nods, seeming to understand, even though she has no idea what I've actually been dealing with. I'm pissed at myself for picking the habit back up; yet another manipulative liberty James has taken in my life. Monica seems to think a moment, then asks me if she could bum one off of me. I smile, handing her the whole pack and my lighter. "Help yourself."

Some time goes by and I get up to refill our mugs. When I return, Monica is laughing quietly. "What is it?"

She's grinning, legs hugged to her chest. One of her house shoes has fallen off, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Do you remember your Sweet Sixteen?"

Now I know why she's been laughing. "Of course I do. It was a mess."

The party itself hadn't been a mess, it was a well planned, extravagant affair my parents used as a status symbol of the amount of disposable money they had to throw around. All the parents in that circle did. It was like one of those reality shows about spoiled kids and their Hollywood birthday bashes, only not quite so crass and trashy. It happened well before I started resenting my mother and father full time; I was still trying to do my best to go along with their wet-dreams of a polite debutante daughter.

Finishing her second cigarette, she laughs again. "Robert was the only one old enough to drive, so my mom let him borrow the Range Rover and take us all out to the lake house."

I remember Monica, Robert, and Myself had been given permission to have a fun little weekend at the lake so we could could enjoy our own post-birthday celebration. "Yeah, then halfway there it started raining, and we got the car stuck in the mud on a flooded road."

None of our cell phones were getting good enough reception to call for help; that may seem like something that would never happen in this day and age, but there are still a lot places in Texas where little to no bars is the norm. The back roads to a lake house miles out of suburbia are some of many.

"When we couldn't get the car to work, we were going to sleep in it and wait until morning to try again, but-" she paused, laughing so hard she runs out of breath. "You and me kept hearing scratching noises outside the car, so we made Robert walk back with us to try and find someone who would let us use their phone!"

We're both laughing now. Robert had been so mad at us. He'd said the scratches were just bugs and varmints, but we were convinced it was Chupacabras or ghosts or some other kind of fictional monstrosity. We'd seen way too many scary movies about urban legends that were scary at the time, but seem so silly to me now. "Then it started storming again while we were walking, and we saw funnel clouds. "We were so scared! Our clothes were fucking ruined. It felt like we walked forever."

It was miserable. We were all freezing, even though Robert let Monica and I take turns wearing his Letter-Jacket. My legs were chafing from the constant wet friction I was subjecting them to. We should have gotten smart and just tossed our shoes along the way; none of us had exactly dressed for that kind of situation, but we didn't want our folks to be any more furious than they already would be. We had no idea how far we had walked before we finally found a few houses and were able to call our parents. In the morning, when they sent the authorities to retrieve the car, they told us we'd traveled five miles. "Five fucking miles, Lacie! We walked five miles in a storm that could have been a tornado!"

"Yeah. Good times. We were so stupid, we could have gotten ourselves killed."

The memory is a pleasant one, one that reminds me of how close we had all been when we were kids, but thinking about it stings, making me feel tired and sad. Monica seems to be thinking along the same lines, because her smiles and giggles are gone, replaced with a puffy eyed, vacant gaze at the cattails leaning wherever the wind pushed them on the edge of the water. I lay my hand on hers and squeeze it; she turns to me and her face is just, so sad. Its all I can do not to break down and lose it. I know I've told myself a million times that this is my fault, but no matter how many times I think about it, it will never stop hurting, or being any less true. I'd made a bad choice in trusting James, letting him sneak into my life and destructing it with his games and lies. Its only now, after seeing Monica, after hearing her talk about her brother, do I stop feeling sorry for myself. I don't deserve to do that in front of her, not when I have changed her life via the butterfly effect of my grossly erroneous decisions. "He always loved you, you know. He used to tell me he wanted to marry you."

Looking down at my lap, I see my nervously fidgeting hands, I'm trying not to blink, and keep my eyes as wide as I possibly can to stop them from overfilling with warm tears. That's never worked for me before, and it doesn't now, either. They push over my bottom lashes, rolling down my cheeks and curling onto my mouth. I sniffle, licking my lips out of habit to get rid of them. "I know," taking a deep breath, "I'm so sorry."

Monica kneels in front of me and gathers me to her chest. We're both crying, again. "Don't say that, Lacie. You didn't do anything wrong. You were always such a good friend to Rob, to both of us. I don't think we would have made it through all of the bourgeois bullshit our parents forced us through without you to commiserate with."

I tighten my arms around her shoulders, shaking with the effort to hold on to her as hard as I can. "Yes I did, Monica. He deserved better. He deserved so much better, and its all my fault. I didn't love him back, and I should have. I never loved him back."

 

After changing into our somber dresses and skirts, I drive us to the funeral home just as the sun is being pulled down to the horizon. There's an anxiety filled silence; I don't think either of us are truly emotionally prepared to go in that building, but then again, who is when it comes to having to see a deceased human being you dearly care about? Absentmindedly, I wonder if my own parents will make an appearance. It's not likely, and I'm sure as hell not going to ask them to come. I may be in town, but that doesn't mean I care for or need to see them. They are still pitiless demons, in my eyes, and being close to them doesn't change me being perfectly content with never seeing them again.

I'm taken aback when we enter. No other family is present but us, and I wonder if any of them will bother to show up at the private viewing, or just phone it in and only go to the funeral. Every wall in the lobby is lined with flowers and arrangements, every corner has two or three filling it leading up to the room Robert is in. I go from planter to vase, examining the cards while Monica talks to the Director in his office. There are several pots and flower racks from friends and family littered about, but when I come to an elegant vase of white and yellow Mums, the card reads, _"Best Regards, -JM"_

I freeze, reading the little slip of paper over and over again before moving on to the next; all white Mums and Baby's Breath,  _"Sincerest condolences, -JM"_

There's a rack of White and Tiger Lillies with a similar card, a planter with California Ivy, another with Carnations, one with Tulips and Daisies; on and on, the cards are all from James. My mind is racing with the effort to calculate just how many arrangements he sent. When I reach the last one; white Mums, Lillies, and Calla Lillies, the card is different.  _"I offer sincerest apologies to my little Gray. You will always be in my thoughts. -JM"_

My breath leaves me in a nostril-flaring hiss, hands shaking with the effort not to scream. Protesting, the right one dully aches for me to stop, but I'm happy to be rid of the stupid cast. I'm glad that Robert has so much greenery in his death's honor, but it makes me sick that most of it is from James, and the fact that he used one of them as a message to me is both disrespectful and threatening. He paid for the entire funeral and bought 85% of the arrangements, but that doesn't come close to either changing or making up for the fact that if it weren't for him; if it weren't for me letting James in, Robert would still be here with me. I'm no longer frightened at the idea of him knowing exacly where I am, or the possibility of him showing up unexpectedly; my gun is tucked away in the car, and I'm willing to shoot through him and his calvary, if it comes to that, or die trying. I'm not even entirely certain I mind that last prospect anymore.

Am I still broken up about how efficiently he wrecked me, emotionally? Yes. Do I miss the part of him I was attracted to, lusted after; the part of him that made me feel safe and content? Of course. I'll be sorting through and filing those feelings for years, but that doesn't mean I'm not ready to fight him; to put one or both of us in the ground if I have to. "Lacie?"

I look over to Monica standing outside the Director's office, hands cradling arms to her chest. "Yeah?"

My voice is raw and shaky, and I know what's coming next. "Mr. Graham says its okay for us to go in."

She grabs my hand, and together we go to face one of the most horrible and piteous events that humans are asked to; seeing someone you love when they're not really there anymore. We pause in front of the door and look at each other for a moment. Forcing a smile, I tell her to just breathe, and a part of that command is begging the same of myself.

There are more arrangements in the little 10 by 12 room, and I try to focus on them, but my peripheral vision betrays me. Still holding Monica's hand tight, my eyes cut to the casket sans permission, and I think I'm going to be sick. I want to rush out of there into the bathroom and lock myself inside. I want to say, "I can't fucking do this," but I don't. I stand there and let Monica lean in to me, and look right in the face of what my sins have caused. Neither of us has moved, we just stare at him, lying there. He's in a half-open casket, and that makes me want to scream; he didn't deserve to die the way he did, and he doesn't deserve a half-closed casket. 

Slowly, I pull Monica with me toward him, because even though it's awful, we need to do this. I never thought I would have to go through this shit again, and I never dreamed for it to be Robert. Monica is shaking against me so hard it feels like she's trying to crawl inside my skin and hide, and I can feel her tears silently soaking through my blouse. 

He's so pale, just like Ash was; the fact that his face hadn't slid to the side as hers did gives me no solace. The suit they chose for him is lovely, but I doubt it had actually been his. Robert hated wearing suits. His hair looks almost fragile, and though they tried to slick it back from his face, a few strands had rebelled and now lay across his forehead, just barely resting against one eyebrow. My eyes catch a discoloration on his left cheek, and I feel nauteous all over again; looking more closely, his lips are just barely swollen, too. This is all too much. 

Without registering my own movement, I reach out and brush the stray hair away from his face. I would jump back, or be surprised when I touch him, if I didn't already know exactly what it was going to feel like; cold and hard, like wax, but still somehow feeling like skin is supposed to. My hands move down his face, and Monica buries her head into my shoulder, crying hard, trying not to look. Looking directly at his forever closed eyes, I grasp his arm, putting every last vestige of effort into not breaking down. "I'm so sorry, Robert."

I know it's fruitless, I know he will never forgive me, and I deserve that. Being sorry for betraying and using him, or for rebuking and never returning his love, will never be enough, not ever. Fun is fun and done is done; Robert is gone, and he's never coming back, no matter how badly I want or need him to. No matter how much his sister will miss him forever. Leaning over the dark and polished wooden box, I press my lips to his cheek, and feel tears running away from me. Drawing a small box out of my pocket, I withdraw the ring I gave to him; I got it in the mail about a week ago, in an unmarked envelope with no note, not even a signature, but I didn't need one to know where it came from. His hands are covered, so instead I carefully slide the little thing into his jacket pocket. Monica watches, silently, but doesn't ask questions.

Taking a deep breath and one last look, I say goodbye to my dear friend. "Thank you for never giving up on me, Rob. I love you."


	22. Chapter 22

I was getting ready in my bathroom for a night on the town with James; tricky business for me, but he promised ultimate discretion, and insisted the location was one that would require little to no worry, on my part. I wasn't a fool though, and still took measures to make myself as inconspicuous as possible; I tied my hair back and brushed my natural part into a position that framed my face in an entirely different way. Using more makeup than I usually would, I made my cheekbones appear lower than they were, and applied a simple bronzer to my my face, arms, and chest. Dark purple eyeshadow and grey liner made my eyes seem smaller, and therefore different. Moshi meowed at me from his perch on my desk chair, and I gave him a sidelong glare. "If I see so much as one hair on that, you're in trouble, mister."

If cats could raise their eyebrows, he would have. His gaze told me in no uncertain terms that he would leave hair wherever he damn well wanted to. In the middle of detail checking, my phone went off and was James letting me know he'd arrived. I had to admit I was excited; it had been ages since I'd actually gone out for myself, instead of for a client's disposal. I pointed a disapproving finger at Moosh before locking up, and headed toward the elevator. When I exited the building, Luke was waiting with my door held open. To anyone without experience, navigating stone steps in 7.5 inch platforms would be a daunting task, but I was no rookie. I smiled graciously at Luke, who continued looking non-plussed, as usual, before gliding into the soft leather interior of the vehicle.

James looked me over and I swore I heard him purr. "You are a sight for sore eyes, Kitten," he said, leaning over to kiss me, placing his hand just this side of too high on my upper-thigh. 

"Mmm." I caught his lower lip in my teeth when he started to pull away, and took the soft collar of his blazer in hand. Thank God for privacy screens. It had been a few days since we'd been together, and while that may not seem so bad, when you're in the throes of an affair that's consumed you, it can seem like a very long time. My skirt stretched tight and gathered just above decency when I drew myself into his lap, covering his ears and neck with splayed hands. His tongue was so warm when it invaded my mouth; tasting of spearmint, as always. I knew we had somewhere to be, and I knew I shouldn't, but my hips gound themselves up and across his groin. His hands tightened on my thighs and he mumbled something into my mouth that I couldn't understand. James didn't seem to mind my advances, and pushed his own hips in tandem with mine. The feeling of his course linen pants pushing against my thin, laced underwear took the wind out of me. A growl escaped James' mouth, and he was twisting us around, pushing us into the overstuffed car-seat. With our mouths still grasping at each other, he poised a knee between my legs and pushed it up until my body had no room to move away from him. His dress shirt's buttons were scratching against my chest as he ground his knee into my core. I let out a loud moan and didn't care if Luke could hear us.

Starting slow and hard, James sped up to quick and shallow. I was crying out with every push; his knee felt like lightning against me, shooting sparks up through my body and into my soul. He loomed over me, perfectly styled hair ruined and hanging in front of his eyes. Heavy-lidded, I tried to look at him, but mine wouldn't stop closing. He was also making frantic sounds, his throbbing erection was currently grinding into my pelvic bone. The friction was becoming unbearable, and James' hand was pushing down on my collarbone, fingers just barely gracing my neck; the other hand had a very firm grasp on my hip and ass, using them as leverage to force us closer.

My mind got lost in the soothing rythym of his strokes, and before I knew it I was gone; driven over the bridge of pleasure and into the water below. James was panting, but I knew he didn't come; my orgasm was easy to hide, and his most certainly would not be. I was constantly surprised at this man's willingness to bring me pleasure only to deny himself; when we were like this, I could never tell whether to think him a vision or a nightmare. Leaning down to kiss me in that perfect soft and firm way, he moved mouth to ear and whispered, "You're welcome."

When the car stoped I was breathlessness and flushed, still burning on the fuel of my orgasm, and he, who was usually able to keep calm as a barn owl, appeared to be suffering the same ailment.

We entered the building and it was like one I hadn't been to in many years. Low lights, loud music and VIP booths connected to yet another room and dance floor. Surprisingly enough, James didn't lead us through any velevt ropes, but to a regular old table by the bar. I pondered that, while he went off for our drinks. He brought us both an Old Fashioned topped with a cherry and an orange. While he sipped at his I bit into my orange wheel, licking the juice from my fingers and mouth, and contemplated his face. His eyes remained on me, but not because I was staring; he was watching me nibble slowly on my pink cocktail cherry. I swallowed it, sucking on my fingers a final time. "Why aren't we in some bougie VIP lounge?"

His eyes leave my lips and focus at my own, a crooked grin spreading wide, leaving only a small flash of teeth on one side. "I'm only giving you the chance of experiencing what it's like not being in the upper class; "bougie," to quote you."

I was almost offended; when he put it as such, it made me sound like a brat. "I spent several years living without my parents' money, and I have plenty of experience not being upper class."

James' face doesn't change but for his sliding eyebrows. He was engaged, and it annoyed me to no end that I didn't know why.

"How did it feel to be a stripper?" he asked, tone deadpan, with no hint of humor or charm; what kind of a question was that? I knew he had an angle, as always, so I tried to think past what was insulting at surface value. How had it felt to be a stripper? "I loved the dancing; knowing men liked the way I moved, vain as that sounds. I made a lot of friends."

Looking pleased, he leans forward. "Freeing, wasn't it? Being in a place like this, being around people far, far removed from your Birthright's social circle; dancing freely for these people, nothing else on your mind." 

I didn't have to think about it long to get what he was aiming for. He was right, it was freeing. I loved it, even when it was shitty. I didn't answer him, just smiled and took his hand, trailing to the dancefloor with him in tow. 

 

When I awake in the guest bedroom, rain is beating softly against the windows. Rubbing my eyes, I head toward the bathroom to shower and get ready for the trying day I'm about to have to endure. Monica is already fully dressed and fixing coffee when I emerge into the kitchen. It's just after noon, and the service isn't for two hours, though we've planned to show up early to handle any last minute arrangements. God knows Rob's parents won't.

I offer Monica a weak smile which she returns, and after we share a few mindless pleasantries, we move to the covered balcony so I can smoke. Out of nowhere, "Why did you leave?"

I look up quizzically, exhaling. "I mean, I know what happened to your cousin...why didn't you decide to come back?"

I think for a minute, wondering what parts, if any, of that sordid era of my life are worth sharing. "Let's just say I discovered some things that caused me to lose what little respect I had for my parents. I found something I was passionate about in Japan, and the rest is history. I had no real reason to come back."

She nods, resting her head on one shoulder. "Yeah, I guess having a high class family isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Amen to that." Smiling, I offer her a cigarette, and she accepts; I don't feel bad. Something's going to kill us all, one way or another. Does it really matter what? Robert smoked, and he ended up mutilated in a ditch. Who's to say the same won't happen to me or Monica? Anything goes, anymore.

"Are you dating anyone? Robert told me pretty vaguely what you do, and I never pried, but I always wondered what it was like."

I almost catch myself before I laugh. Am I dating anyone? Dating, no. Seeing, being around, fucking, sure; until it devolved into the horrorshow it is now. "I was. I guess it didn't quite work out. As for what I do," I change the subject, hoping to end her queries pertaining to my love life, "It's hard to explain, because there's nothing exactly like it in America."

She's looking at me expectantly, when I realize she needs me to elaborate; to take her mind off of what she isn't equipped to think about. Sighing, I continue, "I hate comparing it to an escort service, but that's about as close as I can get for someone unfamiliar with the exact practice. My employees and I are paid to entertain very wealthy guests for exhorbatent fees. When I say "entertain", that's exactly what I mean; no more, no less."

I extend a sidelong glance, and notice she's listening with rapt attention, which makes me smile. "My company is very highly respected and sought after, kind of like a status symbol. If you can afford to hire me or mine to attend your party, then you can afford damn near anything. I mean, it's throwaway money. If someone doesn't have it to waste on a service they don't exactly need, persee, then they won't. Those who do...well, you probably get it."

She looks almost starry-eyed, and it's depressing in a romantic kind of way. Sure, my life and profession sound appealing, but no one really considers the thick strings that come attached when they dream about it. "That sounds like a fairy tale, Lacie," she stops mid-seantence, brows furrowing, "but if people pay for your affection, or company, how do you actually "see" the people you want to date? Don't you want to get married some day, while you're still young?"

I crinkle my nose in disdain. Married, me? No. I don't have time for that shit, and besides, it's never been something I put a lot of chips on anyways. What's the point supposed to be, making it harder for you to leave someone when or if you stop loving them, by burying you both in mountains of paperwork, or flaunting your status with a grandeois wedding? Sounds like a waste of time and money to me, until someone comes up with a justifiable solution to my qualms with it. "I'm just not the kind of person who's well suited for all that. I mean, when I was little, I dreamed about wearing a huge and ridiculous gown; thought about the flowers and music I would choose, but I grew out of it once I realized that marriage is just institutional bullshit," lighting another cigarette, I don't even hear myself say, "I'm not sure I believe in love any more, anyways."

Monica goes on as if she didn't hear my afterthought, "So you don't see anyone? You don't kiss or sleep with people you like? How do you survive?"

She's beaming, almost laughing, and I don't know what to say. I think about it for a moment, and decide once again to try the truth on her in spite of all my deciept. "In general, traditional "dating" would be quite crass due to the nature of my business and that was fine with me, for years, actually. But then..." I trail off, not quite knowing how to parlay into what happened with James; I decide to keep it simple. "The last person I dated...well, I wouldn't call it dating. Anyways, when I said it didn't work out, that was an understatement."

I can't think of anything cohesive enough to describe my situation with James, but I try anyways, "We...he-ah, whatever; he threw me for a fucking loop, and I bought it. He fucked up so many things in my life, I dont even know where to begin picking the pieces up. I'm pretty sure he's certifiable, and I don't know how I'm going to handle it all when I go back."

She looks surprised, but inquires no further; I guess my answer was enough of a reason for her to understand my lack of need for companionship at present. "Im so sorry Lacie, that sounds like a fucking nightmare."

I giggle out a puff of blue-grey smoke. "No need to apologize, unless you're the one who hired him to ruin my life."

Heart sinking, I think about the ironic validity in that statement. Someone had hired James to lay ruin to my empire; kill me, actually; and I'd given him the resources to do so with nearly zero effort.

No time to dwell on that shitstorm now. "Come on, let's get situated. We need to leave if we want to make it on time."


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I hate you for the sacrifices you made for me_   
>  _I hate you for every time you ever bled for me_   
>  _I hate you for the way you smile when you look at me_   
>  _I hate you for never taking control of me_   
>  _I hate you for always saving me from myself_   
>  _I hate you for always choosing me and not someone else_   
>  _I hate you for always pulling me back from the edge_   
>  _I hate you for every kind word you ever said_

Ashley and I were huddled together as close as our dinky lawn chairs would allow, pressing our bodies as far as we could toward the fire pit in our friend's backyard. Ashley took another swig of her beer before passing me the cigarette we were both sharing. "Stormy is cute."

I looked over at Robert's cousin Stormy; they had both devoved into slobbering loons over the football game our home team had won earlier in the day. He was one of those golden country types of which were a dime a dozen here in Texas. Some of the stereotypes are true. His sandy blond curls were hiding away behind a weathered baseball cap with some other team insignia patched on it. I shrugged, tossing my empty bottle into the nearest trash can. "He's alright."

She balked at me, digging through her bag for something. "Are you kidding me?! He's so adorable."

I watched her withdraw a blue ceramic pipe with honeycomb designs etched here and there; she began skillfully packing it, and my eyes flew back to find Robert watching us. His hair was long and curly, tickling at his eyes in the wind. I offered a tired smile, because it was too cold for me to focus on my facial expressions right now. I turned my attention back to Ashley as she exhaled a grey cloud into the chilly air. She offered me the pipe and lighter, and I almost refused but figured hey, why not? It had been a long time since I was high, and working at the shitty bar with my beady eyed boss was grating on my nerves something fierce.

I blew the smoke away from me, trying hard not to cough as my lungs stung in defense. Mind already a tad hazy, I caught Robert in my peripheral vision heading our way. Ashley asked if he and Stormy wanted a puff, and they both agreed, thanking her. Rob looked down at me with some concern, and I returned his gaze with a blank face. "What?"

He removed his leather jacket, exposing the maroon hoodie beneath it, and motioned for me to stand up. "You're shaking, Lace. Your lips are blue."

My hand flew to my mouth, fingers feeling nothing but ice cold skin. I hadn't realized I was that cold. I rose, and let him lift the heavy jumper onto my shoulders. Later on, the frigid outdoors drove us all inside, where we sat in a circle playing Bullshit with weathered Bicycle cards and telling the occasional ghost story. "And that's why my Aunt Mimi turns all of the mirrors in her house backward." We all laughed, and I looked down just as Robert threw his cards down. He proclaimed 3 Queens; risky this late in the game. Someone was bound to have more than one. I thought back to his hand above the pile, and it dawned on me. "Bullshit."

Robert balked at me, offended. "Really? You think so?"

I shook my head, biting my lower lip with a grin. "I know so."

Our eyes were locked and neither of us managed to realize we'd both shot our hands out to the pile in unison, in order to reveal the evidence of his trickery. I felt my palm tickle atop his hand, and realized he had goosebumps. My eyes left the pile of cards and met his own; he was looking at me like an ashamed puppy does when they think they've done something wrong. I squinted, trying to figure out what he was thinking, when he moved to gather his hand back. Returning to the present, I reached and flipped the cards he'd laid down, revealing five cards instead of three, only one of which being a Queen. "Bullshit," I repeated, but with none of the gusto of its predescesor.

The game continued, but I was on autopilot, gears turning in my head. I was a pretty intuitive person, it's something I took a lot of pride in. Though I've been known to blow it out of proportion from time to time, I was almost never completely wrong. I'd known Robert for virtually eighteen years, and I'd never seen that look on his face before. I didn't know what it meant, and that made me crazy. He looked like he was embarrassed about something, but that didn't make sense. Did he feel awkward touching my hand? We were best friends, we touched all the time. So what was it? Then it hit me. I actually had seen that look before; it was at our Senior Prom. Well mine, Monica, Ashley's, anyways. Ashley had asked Rob to be her date, because she'd just broken up with her boyfriend, who was originally going with her.

There was a girl in out class, Gretchen Ross, who was cute as a button, buxom, and most importantly, actually a good person. She and Robert met when the elective Horticulture classes decided to have a department wide field trip to one of the homeless shelters downtown to give the residents some info on growing food, and even giving them their own supplies to start. After that day, he never shut up about her. He had it bad; even to the point that he still asked about her even after he graduated.

She was across the room, still Sleeping Beauty adorable in her fluffy, pastel pink gown. Next to her was her boyfriend, Donnie Frank, who had graduated with Rob. He hated the guy, not only because of how taken he was with Gretchen, but also because Donnie was kind of a grade-A Varsity dick, even after highschool was over for him. No big issues, just a generally unpleasant guy. Everybody wondered what Gretchen saw in him, but I could see it. It's how every good relationship is programmed; their faults and habits negated the other's. They evened each other out. She mellowed him and taught patience with her kind sensibility, and he helped her come out of her shell a little bit. Opposites attract, and all that. I glanced over at Robert; Ashley was talking to him, but he wasn't listening. He was looking at Gretchen Ross, across the room with Donnie's Letter-Jacket on one shoulder. That was the first time I saw the look Robert had given me tonight, at in that instant, I knew why.

The party wound down, most everybody left but myself, Ashley, Stormy, Robert, Jess and Mike; who rented the house. It was big enough to stay over, and none of us were sober enough to operate a vehicle anyways. Ash and Stormy were curled up in the den, watching a movie. I found Robert in the hall, just after exiting the restroom. I grabbed his wrist to stop him. "Hey, what was up with that, earlier?"

He retracted his hand from mine and brushed it nervously on his pocket. "What do you mean?"

Back in those days, Robert had not yet managed to even out his Span-French accent. His father was pure Spanish and his mother was raised in France; they moved overseas when they saw lucrative business opportunities. Having been born in the States, his accent was never severe, but always present like the ghost of his parents; at least that's the what it was like back then.

Motioning to his behavior, "That!"

He looked crestfallen for a moment, silence surrounded us and the sounds of our breathing. "Lace, listen. I don't know what to say."

Wow. I'd expected him to brush it off, tell me it was nothing; I still would have known if he was lying, but I had anticipated he'd try. "Why haven't you said anything to me?"

His shoulders sank and I heard the faint sound of his hair rustling on his clothing. "I don't know."

Robert having feelings for me was an entirely new concept; sure, I had a crush on him in elementary school, but only because he was really the only boy I was allowed to play with. I grew out of it, and we'd always just been friends. I really had no idea. Our eyes met and he looked so sad it burned me. "How long?"

He made a noise with his mouth I couldn't make sense of, then seemed to find words. "I have no idea. I guess a part of me always has."

He shrugged in punctuation. I was still blown away, but took a moment to think, which was hard because my mind was still foggy 'round the edges. Was I blind? How had I completely missed any omens of his affection all these years? What was different about tonight that made me notice it?

None of my schoolgirl crush on him had carried into adulthood; I'd never once thought of Robert as anything more than a friend. He'd always been more like an older brother to me until now, that is. I studied his face more closely and saw a mix of emotions. The one I picked up on most wasn't fear or shame, it was hope. I took a step toward him and raised a hand to cup his face; he wouldn't look at me. "Hey."

His eyes fluttered down to mine, and I felt a smile start manipulating my face. "Kiss me."

He almost winced, as if expecting to hear literally anything other than what I said. He was taking very deep, measured breaths. Standing up on the balls of my feet, I pressed my lips softly on his. Nothing happened for a moment, as if he was afraid to move for fear of it all falling apart. When he did move his mouth, it was molten chocolate; his tounge tasted vaguely rich and nutty. My hands tangled in his curls, and he pulled me up into his arms, my feet just shy of the floor. There were butterflies in my chest and my body was so warm. Rob's mouth on mine with arms wrapped tightly made me feel so incredibly safe and wanted, like nothing I had to compare to. Why hadn't doing this occurred to me before? He was consuming me with his mouth and body, creating a barrier around me using himself and the wall behind us. He pulled away from me, panting, and said four words no other man has said to me since. "I love you, Lacie."

The phrase shocked me for a moment, and then I felt sick; the moment had shattered, despite Rob's effort. I pulled away and untangled myself from his clothes, heart sinking. His eyes were lost and confused as they followed my movement. "What is wrong?"

I don't know what had made me want to kiss him, but I finally remembered why I had never thought to before. Kid's crush aside, Robert really had been; at the heart of it at least, a brother to me. We really did grow up together in a way that made me uncomfortable imagining us as lovers. Would I have liked to love him in that way? Sure, but what we just did felt unnatural to me in a way that can't be fixed. The kiss had been wonderful and I was high on how safe and warm he made me feel, but I couldn't just materialize a new-found sexual attraction to him out of nowhere. Now I'd gone and made a THC induced mistake that I couldn't take back, and it was beyond cruel and unfair. I should have thought it through instead of acting on impulse, but there we were. He seemed to sense my shift, and heaved a sigh, scratching at his head nervously. I didn't think Robert would ever forgive me for saying, "I'm so sorry."

We never spoke of what happened that night again. _  
_

A skeletal old woman is playing Ave Maria on the funeral home's chapel piano, notes leaking through the open doors to the parlor where we all stand. Persons who know each other group together to share their misery, avoiding unfamiliar faces; namely, myself. Though all of them want to express their condolences to Monica, she hasn't left my side since we got in the car, and they all seem to be deeply baffled by that. Her mother and father, Vincente and Taryn Paulson, stand near the entryway, where people can easily stop, shake their hands, mutter something inspirational, and move on. I haven't seen Robert's parent's since I was a teenager. Rob rarely spoke of them; I'm not even sure he talked to them. They're more of a family than mine will ever be, but them not being technically awful parents like mine doesn't negate the fact that they don't seem to have grown out of their bullshit we-have-money snobbery. Vincente seems a little more down-to-earth than Taryn, who is currently buried in another minx coat wearing mom's shoulder, sniffling. My gaze remains on him, and he seems so very tired. His eyes are vacant, save for when someone addresses him, then he offers a grim smile, nod, and handshake. Not that I can blame him; the loss of a child is said to be more jarring and hopeless than any other death a human can endure. His eyes catch mine and I freeze, still staring. Other than his more tasteful and mature hair style, my mind is convinced that I'm not seeing Vincente Paulson, but his son instead. I do not remember them looking quite so similar, but the proof is still staring back at me. His hand lifts up, pauses as if he doesn't remember what he intends to do with it, then begins a feeble wave back and forth. I'm trying to fight back tears, and my hand instinctively returns the gesture before both of them lower, and the moment is gone. I don't think anyone else in the room notices, not that it will matter if they do.

My folks are apparently off on some cruise, but Monica told me earlier that they sent some ridiculous arrangement with their sincerest of apologies for not having been there. A part of me is glad they're not here, but the rest is a little sad, because to me their absence is treason; not that my mental file on them has any more room to be sullied.

When the director announces the service is about to begin, I squeeze Monica's hand, leading her toward the chapel. I move to let it go when we reach the section designated for family, intending to move where I belong, behind his immediate and extended relatives, but she won't let me. Nervously, I sit down next to her, even though I know it's extremely crass. Seeming to sense my unease, she huddles closer to me. "I don't care what they say. You were more family to him than some people we're actually related to. If they want to make a fuss, they're going to have to go through me."

I find it surprising that Monica has become so attached to me in such a short time and I wonder why she's not commiserating with closer friends or family. Of course we'd been close when we were young, but before all this I hadn't spoken to her since I left Texas the first time. I guess some bonds just don't don't ever truly dissapate. Everyone settles in, and we wait. We wait while haunting classical music is being badly played by a senior, and as the Pastor puffs his chest up the stairs to the pulpit. Not two words are out of his mouth and I'm in another place, catching only brief clips and phrases. Monica rests her head on my shoulder and my neck reacts, pulling my head down lightly against hers, as if protecting her. If only I had been able to do so when it really mattered.

Those of us who didn't leave immediately following the service are now gathered around the casket, hovering just above the hole it's about to be buried in. Monica is off conversing with her parents; Greta and I stand silent, next to each other and away from other people. Even though we're both wearing sunglasses; my huge post-modern black Diors to her minimalistic Oakleys, I can tell she's getting emotional. I hear her sniffle and my head snaps in her direction before I can stop it. She takes a deep breath. "I really cared for him, you know. It's not easy being a woman in my line of work, but he never gave me a hard time." She pauses and looks down at the pile of flowers atop the polished wooden box that is now Robert's home. "He treated me with respect, and never once made it seem like I was incapable of anything just because I'm a girl."

I nod, resting my hand atop her shoulder, even though I doubt she's the kind of person who finds comfort in physical contact. Her pained words make my eyes well, puffy already from old tears. Dear God, how am I ever going to survive this? I'm able to push them back and calm myself enough to find words. "He was a good man. Probably the best one I've ever known."

She nods, and we stay like that for some time, while people mill around us like we're just statues; invisible. I wonder if she secretly blames me for what happened. She knows most if not all of the story, as far as I'm aware; if she feels any animosity, it doesn't show on her face of in her words. I pray to whatever god is up there listening that she doesn't know everything. I can't bear anyone else seeing what I've done, what I've caused. I am progressively feeling less and less secure about being able to live with all of this. It's just so  _big_ , so much to try and swallow at one time. I'm too tired and too hurt to think about any of it, but I need to! I need to think about it. I have to figure out what I'm going to do when I go home, and whether or not I'm going to have to spend all of my time looking over one shoulder. I sigh, pitifully.  _It's just too much._


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I love you for everything you ever took from me_   
>  _I love the way you dominate and you violate me_   
>  _I love you for every time you gave up on me_   
>  _I love you for the way you look when you lie to me_   
>  _I love you for never believing in what I say_   
>  _I love you for never once giving me my way_   
>  _I love you for never delivering me from pain_   
>  _I love you for always driving me insane_

The last time I saw James before my bliss was so rudely interrupted had been a strange one. James had decided on a whim to take me to Seoul; private jet, of course. I had no idea how he garnered entry into the country with the sorry state of global political affairs, but again, I couldn't exactly be surprised. However, I was surprised at the ease I'd let him coerce me to come here, to another country, with a man I truly did not know. He was like that though. He had this undeniable charm that made me smile and hurt at the same time, willing to throw caution to the wind to continue to be in his presence.

The hotel he picked for us wasn't ritzy by any means, but it was comfy and quaint, and I quite enjoyed our time there. After getting settled, we had lunch by the bay, went shopping at a few flea markets, walking hand in hand as the sun beat down on our hats and reflected back in our sunglasses. We had dinner at a very small hole a in the a wall cafe in the middle of a huge crumbling structure that was supposed to be a mall, of sorts. It was delicious; I do not fancy myself a picky eater, I've just never had the chance to experience that kind of authentic regional cuisine before, and I couldn't help eating more than I really should have, while James smiled contentedly as he watched me giddily indulge.

When we returned to the hotel we lay like stones on the patio furniture as the sun went down, drinking local spirits and having one of our now usual philosophical debates, when James asked something that gave my thoughts pause."You think we can keep this up forever, you and I?"

I calmly exhaled smoke and tried to think of a way to answer such a loaded question. We had picked up black cherry cigarillos in town; they were a little heavy for my taste, but I still enjoyed them. I decided to answer honestly. "No, I don't."

I took a sip of my drink as James immediately responded. "Well not _forever_ obviously, don't be obtuse. You know what I'm asking."

I really didn't know what to say. I wasn't a fortune teller, there's no way I could have been certain enough of the future to even voice an answer to that query, and I never lied when it came to emotions. I sighed, heavily. "Yes, I do, and my answer is I don't know, Jamie."

I slipped up one day and called him Jamie by accident, and all he did was smile and say he thought it was cute. I couldn't help it slipping out since then, but only when I was happy. I was all business when he had me irritated. I wasn't irrtated now, just at a bit of a loss. I was more than enjoying this little fling, but I could not commit to anything resembling a future with this dark, enigmatic individual; my life was my life. I liked where I was. My company was everything to me, and I ran it to the fullest. I had made two dreams become a reality before I left this world, and for that I could not complain. I didn't want to risk what meant so much to me on a romantic gamble; but I guess I already had. James made me feel alive in a way business could not. He was silent for a while, as was his custom. Unlike myself, every word behind his teeth was meticulously premeditated. "Remember when I said I'd burn for you?"

I swallowed the sizable lump in my throat. That was uncomfortable territory. "Yes."

I remembered what he told me, and I remembered my answer all too clearly. He was staring away at the fast sinking sun, sky turning from orange and lavender to indigo and purple. "I think I can feel myself catching fire."

He smiled, but it wasn't charming or smug, it looked almost hopeless, just not quite there. My skin was crawling with discomfort; I was so at war with my own emotions. Then his arms raised up, and the smile turned amiable. "Give us a kiss, Kitten?"

And just like that, my reservations disappeared. It was simple again; a language I could understand. I sat up in a facetiously begrudging manner, then rose to my feet and spilled into his arms, devouring his lips, mouth, tongue, anything I could reach, because lust was simple. Feelings were not, and I was finding it harder and harder to tell the difference.

I only wish I'd known what was to come, that I'd heeded my own warnings and fled. If I were smart I would have been on the first flight back home, but I didn't run. I wanted to do it and I didn't; in the end I made the wrong choice. It was the wrong choice, ultimately, because the last time I ever saw James face to face, I died.

 

I wish I could stop focusing so much on death and those who have passed, but it's hard after you've seen it up close. It's one of humanity's most important and weary of milestones, and we must all cross it eventually. Cigarette still burning in my fingers, I stare down at the mound of dirt bathed with moonlight in the now empty cemetery. Robert's grave is decorated in all manner of arrangements, flowers, sashes; "Beloved Son", "Dedicated Veteran", "My Big Brother". The last one makes my breath hitch just a bit. Only a bit because I really have nothing left to give, to elicit. I'm running on fumes, emotionally. It's all I can do to keep from shaking. I decided to come back and visit him alone one last time before I leave for home. I've stayed nearly two weeks post funeral to help Monica readjust. I hadn't wanted her to be alone, and her parents are so consumed in their own feelings that they have nothing left to support their last living child with. I've been in contact with Angelica, and her reports have been nothing if not comforting. My girls have been on their best behavior, and everything is running smoothly. My contacts dealing with the other, less fortunate girls have been much of the same. At least there's one slice of my existence that isn't falling apart.

It feels wrong and crass that I'll be leaving Robert so far behind; it makes me itch. I know he belongs here, he was never truly comfortable overseas, and it was never his home. _You were._ Shaking my head, I refuse to put myself through any more mental stress. Fun is fun and done is done, no use crying anymore. Numbness sets in, and I know it's time to leave. This notion is true about a lot of things. Places, jobs, relationships; once you stop feeling, it's over. If you can't summon emotions any longer, flee instead of fooling yourself.

With a sigh that rattles dryly from my lungs, I offer Robert a final, feeble wave and begin the trek back to my rental car. It's hard not to turn around and go back, to just camp out and spend the rest of the night here. I swat away at those thoughts too; I need to go home and stop being so indulgent in my own misery. Time to get back on the reality train, as much as I want to tear up my ticket and run away.

I listen intently to the sound of my feet crunching the gravel below me when another noise becomes apparent; high pitched, melodic, eerie. It takes me a moment to realize that it's whistling. I bristle and stop about 25 feet from the vehicle. It can't be myself going crazy and not realizing I'm whistling; I've never been able to. I don't move for several seconds, then the tune ceases and I hear a second pair of crackling footsteps behind the car. My thoughts are racing, blood now being flooded with adrenaline. _Please don't let it be..._

He emerges into the moonlight, hands in the pockets of a surprising civilian outfit. I can see but not hear his mouth rolling his gum around. I'm frozen with my fists balled tight while he smiles, shrugs, and leans against the rental. "Miss me?"

His maniacal grin makes me want to scream as loud as I'm able. A part of me knew he was going to do this eventually, but why come here? Why not just wait until I get home, where it would be easier? I don't care. Fear is rising from the pit of my belly; there is no one else around for miles, this cemetery is in the middle of nowhere. I try to put rational thought into words, and find my voice. "How dare you set foot here."

He moves away from his perch and holds his arms outstretched, making him seem larger than he is. "You know how impatient I am. I couldn't wait to see you."

"Fuck off, James." I clutch my jacket tightly around my torso, partly because of a cool breeze, but mostly due to the dull, throbbing fear in my veins. I'm not prepared for him. _Think._ How do I get out of this?

He's walking not toward me, but back and forth across the rocky substrate, looking rather perplexed. "I take it you're still cross with me then?" 

Why is it ways facades with him? Why can't he ever just be real, actually communicating instead of talking in riddles? I used to love those concentric riddles; found them endearing, even. Now I wish I had instructions to fucking decode his bullshit. "Cross isn't the word I would use. What do you want?"

He stops pacing and takes a few steps toward me. I move three steps back. I'm not playing this game again. He frowns, watching me recoil. His skin just shines in the moonlight, he's so pale. I used to love looking at his milk white skin, running my fingers over the smooth surfaces. His skin is paler even than mine, and I have a very fair complexion. "I got tired of waiting for you to come home. I've been missing you."

I'm so angry my breathing has my nostrils flaring. Enough is enough.  "Stop playing games with me James!" I'm yelling so loud my throat hurts. "What do you want from me?! I have nothing, you took everything! I don't have anything left!"

I'm hoarse and panting, eyes welling up after my outburst. I suddenly feel exhausted and just...heavy. I'm so tired and loose around the edges, I don't know if I can hold it together for much longer. I'm cracking. James' smile flies from his face and in an instant, he's grimacing. "Have it your way."

He's walking toward me, and I'm scrambling backwards, trying to keep him at arm's length. My ankle hits something and I tumble backwards onto a stone. James watches me fall, face unchanging. "You're going to be coming with me now."

I shake my head, rubbing my elbow where the rock met it. "No. I'm not going anywhere with you. Please James, what do you want, why are you here?"

His eyelids flutter for a moment, and I swear I see him shiver. Not missing a beat, he holds a hand out to help me up; when I don't take it he yanks me toward him by my arm. Clutching both of them hard enough to make my skin red, he breathes through his teeth into my ear, "It's precious that you think you have a choice."

I yank my arms from his grasp and push him away from me. "Monica still expects me to leave tomorrow. Greta fucking came here with me! What do you think she'll do when she wakes up and I'm not there?"

Surprisingly he doesn't react to my shove, just stays where I put him. He doesn't say anything for a beat, then his eyes roll skyward, come back down on my face like he thinks I'm stupid. "You're being silly, Kitten. Of course I have it taken care of."

I stare at him, thinking of all the many meanings behind the words "taken care of", and trying to find one that doesn't mean something awful. "I swear to god James, if you touched a hair on either of their heads-"

He holds a hand up, interrupting me. "It's taken care of. Believe me if I'd killed them, you'd know it. Do you honestly think I have to resort to violence to solve all of my problems?"

In my experience, that certainly has been the case. "You tell me, James."

He grins wide, teeth bared. "Touché, Meine Liebe."

My heart sinks. So what's he going to do, just take me and expect no one to notice? What if he can just take me? I'm shaking from fear and cold, my heart is beating like a hummingbird's wings. Isn't there anyone his influence doesn't reach who will notice my absence? I can't think of a single one. I guess my social exclusivity has finally come back to bite me in the ass. Robert is gone, Ashley is gone; who knows what Monica and Greta think is happening. Then I realize that this must be it. This is where he finally finishes his job and gets rid of me.


	25. Chapter 25

Trying to quell my panic by soothing my nerves, I close my eyes, count backward, then take a deep breath. "What makes you think I won't call them, call the police?"

He frowns, gives me that look of condescending disapproval he's so good at. "Something tells me you're intelligent enough not to do something so silly. Come on Lace, this is getting old."

He holds out his hand, stars shining brightly behind him, and now he looks tired. Tired like the day he told me Robert was dead. I glance down at the wristlet my phone is in and know he's right. Why upset his master plan? There's no more use running, James is and will always be two steps ahead of me. When you think you meet your match, it's awe inspiring; when your match has always been miles ahead of you, it will fill your heart with dread. So I decide to accord. My arms fall limp, face feels heavy, eyes hurt. "Fine, James. Whisk me away like you used to."

A strange look appears and he's not quite looking at me anymore. Arm still outstretched, I reluctantly take his hand. His fingers close around mine, frigid as stone, and I'm consumed with a feeling like cold fire. I've truly given in, come what may. I got myself into this and sacrificed more than I can afford; I have to finish what I started. He gets in the driver's seat of the rental and I follow suit. Buckling myself in, I turn around to see my luggage arranged in the back of the mid-sized SUV. I want to roll my eyes but it doesn't seem appropriate. How the fuck did he manage that? The parking lot was far and away from Robert's grave, so myself not noticing isn't the problem; it's how he got it out of Monica's house. I know everyone is asleep and it's a large estate, but still. Alarms, cameras, anything? Is there no security measure he can't get around?

I'm silent on the way to the airport, turning my phone over and over in my hands. Not a whole lot I can do with it now, might as well be an overpriced toy. James glances at me, then back to the road. He rolls down my window, causing my hair to fly about haphazardly. Looking back at me for an uncomfortable about of time, he says, "Throw it out the window."

I blanch, incredulous, completely taken by surprise. "What are you talking about? I'm not throwing my phone out of a moving car."

He laughs, and his gaze returns to the road. "Just do it. You won't be needing it anymore."

The pit in my stomach aches, and I stare at the little device in my hand, turning it around a few more times. I let out a deep breath, and fail to hesitate as a I pitch it into the darkness. I can't even see it land, or hear the sound of crunching metal and plastic on asphalt. I feel defeated, just as I did every other time he got the best of me with his ever present planning; his ability to get me into situations that I would normally be in control of. As nervous as I am, something about being in a car with James feels like home, and it kills me.

We park in a private lot and James looks at me and smiles. "Stay put just a moment Kitten, if you please."

I just nod, as he unbuckles himself and jumps out to greet a group of people. I glance at my glove compartment, to James in the rearview, facing away from me. Keeping my eyes on the conversation outside the car, I unlock the compartment and withdraw my gun, shoving it deeply within my jacket. I don't know why. I still can't guess what he wants with me or where we're going, so it's good to have a sembleance of safety, thin as it is. I nearly jump when the trunk pops open, and our luggage is being unloaded. James is coming around to open the passenger door; I clutch the gun in the crook of my arm in my jacket. When he opens my door, he holds out my purse, and I take it. I put my wristlet inside, and when James looks away, only for a moment, the gun. We board the same private aircraft we'd taken to Seoul, a comfortable lush modern interior lie within. When we sit I feel tired again, adrenaline of hiding the gun used up and discarded. Thank god we aren't flying civilian, I'd have been carried away by TSA operatives.

When we're settled, James offers me a drink and I comply because hey, I need one anyways. I trust him at least not to drug me; it just doesn't seem like his style. I'm staring out the window at the landscape beneath, taking a drink every so often, mind adrift. Where else can it be? I haven't the energy for compartmentalization right now. James has been staring at me the entire flight. If he's waiting for me to speak first, he has another thing coming. I turn my head to meet his gaze, and his eyes narrow, head quirking to the side. He sets his drink down, crosses his legs, and clasps his hands in his lap; all business. "You know, I've never let another woman into one of my homes. Not before you."

I inhale quietly and wonder where this is going. He continues, "Never let one sleep in my bed, or sleep with me in my bed. No one has ever kept my interest, not like you can."

Why is he being so strangely honest, or is he? I can never know. Why is he telling me this now, when he knows how I feel about what he's put me through, to confuse me? Mission accomplished. "What are you getting at, James?"

There's a crackling noise on the overhead speaker, and James is called into the cockpit. He smiles and bows before exiting the cabin, effectively ending the line of conversation. I doubt I would have liked where it was going anyways. When he comes back out, grinning, he tells me we're nearing our destination. I was surprised by just how quickly; we can't have left the state. "That being?"

He sits down, straitens his jacket, and finishes his drink. "Galveston. You've never given me permission to take you so far away from the company before, save the once. I figured I'd take the chance since it's in someone else's capable hands for the time being."

Galveston? Why on earth would an international consultant want to go to Galveston, let alone even know about it? God knows I love it there, despite it's seemingly shabby reputation and lackluster appeal for other people; I'm in love the with its culture, but I'm not sure how I feel about being there under these circumstances. The city has the capacity to be very dangerous, and so does the man I'm with. Not a cocktail I want to drink right now. "I didn't give you permission this time, either."

He frowns, half smirking. "You did come with me, didn't you?"

I roll my eyes and rub my forehead with the face of my thumb. As if I'd been given a choice.

 

We arrive at a grand, looming hotel right on the sea-wall. I've only stayed the night in Galveston a handful of times, mostly just day trips with friends, and I've certainly never been to an older, prestigious inn such as this.

I can't help but wish we were here under different circumstances; that we were still an item, or whatever you want to call it, and had come to this little slice of beachfront to enjoy our time together. Instead, I've been abducted by a psychopathic ex-lover, with no idea what he's planning; I've been careful to keep my bag close to me at all times.

"Why so serious, love?" James is sitting at the edge of the bed while I've been staring out the window of our room, lost in thought. I sigh, cutting my eyes at him. "You tell me."

He wasn't smiling before, but he's certainly frowning now. Running his hand through his dark hair, he moves them to his face, looking rather serious. Finally, his restless hands lie down on his knees. "Look, I know I hurt you. I lied. I'm sorry, I thought I was protecting you."

He pinches the bridge of his nose now, and he must be out of sorts if he's doing this much with his hands. He talks with them, sure, but he rarely touches his face or hair with regularity, unless he's upset. I turn, crossing my arms and looking up at the ceiling. "Hurt doesn't even begin to cover it, Jamie. You took my life, and you put it in a meat grinder."

I hiccup at the end of the sentence to keep from becoming emotional and fail, while trying to pretend I hadn't slipped up and used that particular term of endearment. By the look on his face I can tell he's not pretending with me. "Lace, I brought you here because I want to explain, full disclosure. To talk. You deserve that."

Why is this happening? There's a reason I stayed in Texas for longer than I needed to; I thought if I did this would all go away, and I wouldn't have to deal with James. Not physically, I know eventully he would have found a way to see me again, but I figured I'd be so separated from him by that time that it wouldn't matter. I would have been able to stand my ground; now I'm just confused, as fucking always. In regard to James Moriarty, I am and always have been uncomfortable facing how I feel, how I want to feel. I'm so exhausted I can barely think about anything, let alone how much I miss James and wish I had a fucking time machine. No, a time machine won't fix a damn thing. There's no tangent where this couldn't have ended up the way it did, save for getting out of the trafficking savior business and never putting myself on James' radar in the first place. I was certain before that had been exactly what I wanted, but now being in the room with him in the flesh, watching him watch me with that gorgeous and pitiful face, I'm not so sure anymore. Looking down at the floor, my voice is just above a whisper. "Define full disclosure."

James purses his lips like he's pouting. "Can't we have a bite to eat first? I'm dying for a slice of key lime pie."

It's late, but not so much that some restaurants won't be open. Besides, there are a few Mom and Pop's that go for 24 hours. As much as I wan to say no, to get all if the bullshit out of the way now, I'm starving. I haven't been eating as well as I should lately. I can't even remember the last time I had an actual meal. "Sure."

I'm too exhausted to be difficult, and that appears to surprise James, because he just stares at me for a moment. I stare right back, our eyes are locked and though his look black from here, I still remember what they're like up close; mahogany honey with a tinge of bored desperation. At least that's what they appear to be when I'm privy to some of the labyrinth that is his mind; in control. Other times I'm lost and they look dark as wet tobacco. Kind of like right now. He smiles after a time, and jumps up from his perch. "Well that's that then. I'm quite excited about where I'm taking you. It's a well kept secret amongst locals."

I get changed and we embark down the sea-wall, and under any other circumstances we would be holding hands, but we're not. Mine are shoved as deeply in my pockets as they will fit, and his are hanging neutrally at his sides. The scenery is breathtaking; we're off the wall and walking down main street, past the tacky pastel houses and hauntingly gorgeous cemeteries. There are several here, and they're all stunning, diamonds left in the wake of the new, more modern plots without real graves, just a plaque shoved in the dirt printed with one's credentials. I much prefer architecture, mausoleums, intricately carved headstones, etc. The quiet is making me uncomfortable, so I decide to bring  up something that's been bugging me. "Why did you bring me to Galveston, of all places?"

He shrugs, eyes ahead. "I've done business in the area once or twice. Something about it stuck with me. It's an oddly charming if not slightly dilapidated city. Besides, I thought you'd be more agreeable in familiar place."

Seems a simple enough answer, but things are rarely simple concerning James' motives. I decide to let it go. "Have you ever thought about what your gravstone will look like?"

He turns to me then, surprised by my inquiry as I am. He doesn't seem to think at all before responding. "Of course not."

It's my turn to be surprised, then I realize we've stopped moving. There's a dark building with a flickering neon sign above indicating the name of the restaurant he's so excited about. It's not one I've been to before. I look up at him, earnestly pondering his answer. "Why not?"

He smiles, holding the door open for me, and warm air brushes my face billowing from the inside. "Not everyone is as morbid as you, darling. Lighten up."

He doesn't speak in a condescending tone, like I would have expected. Interestingly enough, it almost seems like he's trying to comfort me.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"You corrupted me," he said._   
>  _"We corrupted each other,"she said_   
>  _Our drama is that we live in a state of mutual invasion._   
>  _But I am just a woman who thinks her duty is not to forget._   
>  _I come from a Woman._   
>  _Women are not to be satisfied._   
>  _And I? I drink, I burn, I gather dreams._   
>  _And sometimes, I tell a story._

James is right, that key lime pie may be the best dessert I've ever tasted. After an exquisite meal that included massive and delicious hush puppies, I'm completely stuffed. Having dinner with James, even in such odd circumstances, makes me feel somehow less stressed; familiar, despite the fact that it shouldn't. I'm watching James sign the receipt, tipping the waitress $100. She's sure going to be pleasantly surprised, our tab is under $30. He notices me noticing him and smiles pleasantly. I wonder if his act of being so kind to another human being is for my benefit, or hers. As soon as the thought enters my head, I dismiss it. In fact, I decide to let my doubt go. The only purpose it's serving is stressing me out and draining my energy, so from now on, I'm going to let it all be; take as much of this at face value as I can. "Come on Darlin'. Let's get out of here."

I take the hand James offers me to get up, when he kisses it. It's painfully gentle, and I can feel my veins throbbing against his lips. It makes me almost uncomfortable; excavating memories of when he used to do it all the time. Shaking it off, we return to the dark streets of this beautiful, crumbling city, heading in the opposite direction we came.

 

When we reach the hotel and James is mixing us a drink with ingredients from a room-service tray, I realize this "trip" is just some kind of twisted deja vu. Another hotel, another drink, another conversation. I'm not even dreading it any more. My hand brushes the gun as I dig around in my purse for cigarettes, and my heart skips a beat; it's all a show playing on repeat, except for that particular accessory. Will I need it? I don't even know whether to hope that I do, or not. It's all the same to me.

James is smirking a little too wide as he expertly stirs us two Old Fashioned's. He seems in odd form since we returned tonight, soon to be morning; giddy almost, but that's still the wrong word. I can't think of one to describe his tone as I continue to stare. He's kind of vibrating with some form of nervous energy, and garnishes unnecessarily, just for show. It's a show I'm not interested in. "What's got you so worked up?"

James looks up from the glasses, but continues with his frivolous fruit placing. "Well you, obviously."

My heart jumps but it feels hollow, like a copy of the original document. Final touches done, he invites me to sit next to him on a lovely plush sofa in the den of the suite, but I ignore him and move to its twin directly across from the other couch. He makes no indication that he notices my snub, and lights up a cigarette while I sip. We're having another one of our "who's going to talk first" standoffs, which he clearly forgets that I always win. Leaning back, he stares at me like a cat stares when it's hungry; wide eyes, pupils blown. Its making me uneasy, so I fold. "Why so smug?"

He laughs then, and it's more than music. His presence is starting to get to me. Then the laughing stops, and his face is dead. "Because you made it quiet."

James shrugs, and makes that childish scrunched up face he does. From chaotic neutral to giggling kid in a pinch. He's always been so changeable. I blanch, uneasy; this is going downhill fast. "What did I make quiet, James?"

He's leaning forward, knees so close to touching mine I can feel their heat through my tights. Locking eyes with me, his stare into mine, full of manic light. He taps one side of his forehead, pointedly. "My mind. You quiet me. You've always quieted me."

His behavior is starting to frighten me, but I still can't look away from his face, inches from mine, and our knees are touching now. I want to move away, but I don't. I just stare, inhaling his warm, peppermint breaths; eyelids fluttering when I feel them land on my cheek.

I open my mouth to speak, to try and break out of this, but he interrupts me, "D'ya know, I knew I was in trouble the moment I laid eyes on you. Even when I still thought you were a whore."

I lean back, offended, though the memory of the day we met will be forever ingrained in my mind; he said he'd been "misinformed" about my profession, though it seems nigh impossible that James ever isn't one step ahead of everyone. "Did you know when I first saw you, I had no idea you were going to ruin my life?"

His face falls and he almost looks mad, but mostly pained. His voice is quiet and slow, "I am truly sorry. I don't think you can fully understand how much so, or what that means, but I am. I'm sorry."

I'm almost to tears. My life is upside down and my heart is beating a lot faster than I want it to. Thinking back on all that's happened it's hard to pretend not to feel the gaping hole that just opened up in my chest. I try to keep my voice even, but my hands are shaking. "I can't do this, James."

My hair tangles up in his fingers when they grasp both sides of my face. It looks like his eyes are welling. "Please forgive me, Lace."

I think my heart just shattered. Tears fall, I shake my head back and forth. "You made a mess of everything,"

His expression changes to one of surprise, and he relinquishes his grasp on my face. "I made a mess of everything?! You damn near tore apart my day to day. My life. What I do."

What's he talking about, and how did I possibly upend his existence? He makes this statement as if he thinks it's obvious. "If I was in my head, which I wasn't, again because of you, I would have killed you. I would have come to your apartment myself and strangled you in your sleep."

I can't comprehend what I just heard; not because I'm not able, but because I don't want to. The thought of me having any impact on James' motives and actions is somehow frightening. Then a part of me feels childishly glad that I've fucked something of his up too. "Why didn't you?"

He moves from the couch down between my knees, grasping my hands. "Because you were unpredictable. Because every time you spoke I actually listened, because I wanted to listen."

My mind is reeling as pieces of the puzzle click in my head. If I'd been looking I would have caught it sooner. His erratic behavior around me; I know he's a deeply disturbed human being, but it seems he should have been better at hiding it. He risked his business relationships and his life just to keep seeing me. This is altogether too much. James seems to sense that I understand, because he springs up desperately, mouth and body crashing into mine. He carries on like he's trying to consume me, to absorb me into himself. I hate myself because I miss this, and because I don't want to stop. Hands clawing, clothes ripping, James buries his face into my neck and begins to gnaw, grunting like a hungry animal. I'm clenching my teeth it hurts so bad. Caring not for the buttons, I shove my hand under his shirt and drag my nails down his chest, catching on a nipple. James gasps and I'm able to escape his hold. He follows me as I sit up, hands clutching my hips to grind against his. A moan escapes my lungs when he pins me to the arm rest with a leg between my thighs. He certainly remembers what makes me lose my mind. I don't know why I'm doing this. It feels so good but I know it's sick. Hell, I'm sick. What does it matter anymore? James' fingers are buried inside me and I'm trying not to tear my hair out. He leans down and takes my ear into his mouth, flicking it softly with his tongue. "I brought you here so you could love me. You love me, don't you?"

I'm having trouble concentrating with his hands up my skirt and under my bra; I know the answer, focusing enough to get it out is the catch. I'm able to push him enough off of me to speak. "My answer is the same as the last time you asked me, James."

He goes silent and still, but his mouth seems to vibrate with the effort it takes to keep from screaming. "Why not?! I give you everything you want. I'M FUCKING PERFECT."

Passion replaced with fear, my chest is heaving. "James, if you can't see why I don't, then I can't help you."

Leaning back, pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs. His face is at war, and I nervously straiten my clothes. Then a thought occurs to me. One I never considered asking before, "Why do you need me to love you?"

James looks up, doe eyed. "Because I don't know how! I need you to love me because if you love me and I want to love you, even if I can't, it's still the same, right? It's what I want! I want to keep you, and you'll only let me keep you if you love me."

His voice is a singsong roller coaster as he tries to make me understand his disturbed logic. My emotions are so fried I'm nearly dead to hearing his words, but not so much that it doesn't hurt like hell. I shift all of my weight out from under him, pulling my top back down where it belongs. "You can't keep me, James."

He goes on as if he doesn't hear what I say, eyes still wide, like he's reliving a nightmare. "You see, you're special to me. I don't like women. I don't. They're all terribly boring, they all look and act the same. When I look at a woman, I either want to fuck her, or kill her. Never both. Not before you."

My heart jumps, but it's not the same as before. It jumps now in defense; I feel empty inside. Devoid of caring about the results of this exchange. "Do you still want to kill me, James?"

He seems to purr, returns his face to the crook of my neck and inhales deeply. "I always have."

I don't know whether to be angry, scared, or inexplicably, flattered; planning to kill someone in your life and meaning it is an incredibly intimate gesture. Grasping just how fucked up all of this is, I shove him away from me by his shoulders. "Get off of me."

For a split second I think he'll lash out, but he doesn't, just stares at me, waiting for an explanation, and I feel a flood coming. "In another life I would have loved loving you. In another life you'd be fucking perfect, we'd run away together, we'd live, we'd fuck, we'd die. But this isn't that place, and that is never going to happen. I will never, ever love you, James."

I inhale sharply, surprising myself with how much that revelation hurts me. If it weren't for all the pesky details, James would be my fucking wet dream relationship, and with an aching breath, I realize how much I still want that; but it doesn't change anything. His whole body is trembling now, and before I even see him move he lashes out with one arm, wrapping it around my neck and pulling me against him in a choke hold. I gasp, trying to use my legs as leverage to get out of his arms, clawing futilely at him when his grasp tightens. The side of his face is pressed so hard to mine his teeth are hurting my cheek. "I'm the only one you get to love, Kitten. There's no one out there who needs you like I do. So if you won't love me," he constricts my face so close to him I'm gasping for air. "Then you can't be allowed to go on and love someone else."

He pulls me down until I'm lying flat; he has me at a difficult angle, and I start to see stars. There's a ringing in my head and I don't even fight him anymore, all that will do is make this harder. My hands now rest lightly atop the arm trying to crush the air out of me. Somehow I knew this would happen. That it would end in this way, with James choking the life out of me in a literal sense, just like he had metaphysically. My head falls to the side and a tear slides down my cheek, waiting for the world to fade away, but it doesn't. James lets up from my throat and I'm gasping for air, lips blue, fingers shaking. He pushes me away from him and onto the floor. I'm still trying to regain rational thought as oxygen floods my dizzy brain cells. With his foot he nudges me over onto my back, then drops to his knees on top of me. This all seems too familiar, only this time, I can hardly breathe. A hand slams to the floor to the side of my head and it lands on my hair; he leans down on it to get closer to my face and keep me from moving. "I gave you everything. A life with me would be perfect, every minute of it."

His bunches my hair up in a fist and I inhale sharply when I feel it pulling against my scalp. "I tried to get bored with you. I did. It just didn't take."

I'm scared for my life now, under James once again, looking for a way to escape. Whole lot of good bringing a gun did me. I'm so stupid; I can't believe I didn't see this coming. I take that back, I saw it coming, I just assumed I'd be prepared when it happened. My throat is scratchy and my neck aches, but I still attempt to reason with him. "James, don't do this again. Let me up so we can talk."

No answer, but the hand in my hair moves from grabbing it to stroking it lightly, brushing stray bits out of my face, smoothing them back into place. In a normal context, it would have been relaxing; I'm pretty far from relaxed right now. He continues silently, moving from hair to face, to neck, resting finally at my collarbone. It's getting really hard to control my heaving chest and keep calm. Closing my eyes, I focus on listening to myself breathe, being thankful that I can still breathe, and planning to keep it that way. Reluctantly, I move to cover his hand with my own, closing my fingers around it and squeezing. He seems to respond to that, lifting his face to the ceiling and inhaling low and slow, exuding the predatory, feline mannerisms he often slips into. I know there's no point in struggling; my last escape from him had been a lucky shot at best. I'm used to his mental breaks, used to them arising and dissipating just as quickly, but I don't think he's coming back this time, at least not in the near future. "Jamie."

James' head stays tilted, but his eyes flutter open. My voice is strained, rendering it barely audible. "Jamie, listen. I didn't mean what I said."

His head rolls downward on his neck, but he's not looking me in the face, he's staring at the floor beside my head. "Is that so?"

I want to nod, but it feels like there's a metal rod jammed in place of my spinal cord and my neck won't comply; I pray there's no permanent nerve damage. He seems surprised, removing his hand from my chest and running it through his hair and down his neck, shakes his head, massages his eyes desperately. I don't know if I've ever been around him when he's unhinged so completely for such a long period of time. Are there other people he's like this with, or is he always wearing Moriarty's mask? I can't imagine me being the first. I look up at him earnestly, hand finding his forearm, because it's really the only thing I can reach at this angle. He inhales when I touch him, face red from rubbing it so hard. "I just...I don't think I'm ready for this, for us. I'm a fucking mess right now."

I move my body to sit up and he allows it, watching me intently, eyes wide as saucers. "I want to love you, Jamie. I'm just scared."

Using his face as leverage, I pull myself all the way up and push my mouth onto his. James' arms constrict around me so hard I'm afraid he's going to try strangling me again. I don't recoil, just press my body into his and fight the urge to feel anything. Pulling away I regard him; I can see in his face that this isn't the way he anticipated the conversation ending up. His eyes are on fire, I can almost see the smoke, and it kills me. Not as much as what I'm about to do will, though. Rearing my head back, using hands on his shoulders as leverage, I slam it into his as hard as I can and push him hard from me. Dizzy, I stumble away to my purse and dump it out. He sees the gun clatter to the floor, but makes to move to retrieve it. I snatch it up and point it his direction; no way I'd ever land a shot like this, I can barely stand up strait, and the world is spinning. I can feel blood on my face as I stand there heaving, and can see it on James' as he slowly rises to his feet. He doesn't look disappointed or angry, in fact, he's grinning. I disengage the safety when he moves forward. Arms outstretched, he seems nonplussed by the injury I gave him. "Well look at you go, Kitten."

I jump when he starts clapping. "I was starting to worry you didn't have it in you."

I shouldn't be confused, but I am. Waving it away, I try to stay focused. Even though deep down I knew this was going to be the way the trip ended, I'm still surprised. I had seen the future, but failed to plan for it. My head is starting to clear, but it feels like it's splitting open from the inside out. I hope his hurts just as badly. My muddled emotions about him are far more clear now; I hate that he can make me doubt myself just by being present, but I'm not doubting myself anymore. I steady my grip, ignoring the growing pain in my arms from holding the gun out toward him. "I'll pull the trigger, James. I'll do it."

He's no longer smiling, face hardened again into that daunting blank stare. "You need me, you know."

I can't think of anything to say, but he does, pacing the room in front of me. "You may not know it, but you do. You say you'll never love me, but I think you came a whole lot closer than you're comfortable."

I'm taken aback, gun hand faltering only slightly. That's the trouble when you put two intuitive people in the same room; each one already knows the others' secrets, it's a matter of one strategically letting on to the other now much they truly know. Blood drying on my brow and eyelids is becoming a distraction; I force my arm to follow him as he moves, managing to move one hand free and wipe my face with it. "I don't need anyone. Least of all you."

He laughs, loud and tinkling, eyes squinting shut. When they open, they're still full of glee. "Now Lacie, we both know that's not quite true. You've been just as gone as I have this whole time."

He shrugs that nonchalant shrug of finality I hate so much. I don't know why I'm surprised by his words, he's omnipotently aware of everything. The only question now is how much of what I think I know about him is true. I'll probably never find out, and in this moment, I could care less. I have to leave. For the third and final time, I tear myself away from James Moriarty.

Heaving a sigh that hurts my throat, I lower the firearm. "Goodbye, James."

He smiles, teeth shining, and he looks like a monster, exclaimed by the blood all over his face and hands. "See you later, Gray."

I turn and walk to the door with only a gun and the clothes on my back. Calling over my shoulder, "No you won't," I exit, closing the door softly behind me. I know in my heart he won't follow me.

Tucking the gun under my disheveled blouse, I try and find a public restroom. When I do, it's on the ground floor, and I have to sneak by two concierges and a bell boy to get there. Locking he door behind me, I set the gun down and splash at my face and clothes furiously. The water runs brown as flecks of dried blood clump around the edges of the drain. When I look in the mirror, I'm not as shocked as I though I would be. The cut on my head is small, but the swelling is horrid. Head wounds always bleed out of proportion. I stumble onto the toilet, grabbing a hand towel and pulling it down, I dry myself meticulously. I know I'm in shock, because I want to cry, but I can't. What am I going to do now? I have none of my things; money, clothes, phone. I don't have anyone to call and help even if I did have it. For a second I hear Robert's voice, nondescript, but it's him, I know it. Wildly, my head swings in all directions, eyes seeing everything and nothing. Nobody is there. I still don't cry, even though I really want to. Robert is the only person I know could have come here and saved me, saved me from James, like he tried to do before. It takes me a moment to realize I'm getting angry. James took Robert away from me; I told myself if I ever found out it was his doing I'd put him in the ground, but I didn't. He stood there practically asking me to shoot him, and I walked away. After all he put me through, I let my confusion and emotions stand in the way.

He was sent to kill me, he lied to me, he put my heart in a blender, he essentially put my best friend to death. Yeah, this is happening. Throwing the towel on the ground, I shove the gun into the waistband of my tights as skirt. Shaking, I move back through the lobby and to the elevator, hoping no one else is in there. My anger rises with the ding of each floor as they go by. I know I'm still in shock, that I'm probably making a mistake, probably going to get myself killed, but I don't care. If I'm going down; and I am already down, just not quite dead, I'm taking that motherfucker with me.

Time slows when I hit our floor and walk down the hall to that room. I'm hyper aware of the paintings, plants, and various other decorations as I breeze by. The door is still closed when I reach it, and I almost knock out of habit. Moving my hand to the doorknob, I notice the old-style key lock hasn't been engaged, so I'm able to open and enter.

He's standing there, framed in the moonlight from the window, facing the dark ocean. I close the door softly behind me. When he doesn't turn around, I withdraw the gun from my clothing and point it at his back. He crosses his hands behind himself. "I was wondering how long it would be."

Two shots end it all. They rip through him like tissue paper and I feel nothing. There's nothing left to feel, especially not toward James. He crumples and I can't hear again. I really have got to stop discharging firearms in closed spaces. Watching the pool of blood cascade into the fibers of the carpet, I put the safety on, and move slowly toward the body. When I'm standing over him my breath hitches; seeing the evidence of a life you just ended is much more intimate than looking at a dead body. I kneel down, take a deep breath, and feel his pulse; nothing. Then I notice something strange...there's a mole on the right side of his neck I've never noticed before. I never noticed it, because it didn't fucking exist. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I yank him around with strength I don't know I have left.

I recognize the face, but it's not Jim's. My nostrils are flaring as my brain matrixes the features, trying to make them James but they don't fit, because they're not. Then it clicked. Purple flowers on his lapel; Heather. It was the Jim look-alike from the Gala...it all seems ages ago. The Azalea group, the parties, the doting clients, all of my girls. It's all a dream to me. Now I've killed a man, and that man is not James Moriarty.


	27. Eventuality (The End)

Prague is a magnificent city. When people hear "Czech Republic" they don't usually think of gorgeous parks, vast architectural beauty, and a well established art and fashion scene, but that's what's here. I've never felt more at home in my life. Giving up the ghost of my old world was hard at first, but necessary; there was no endgame, so I had to make my own, and make I did. I lost a gamble with the devil, and surrendering those few important people to me is the price I paid, the price I'm still paying. However, adjusting to being a dead woman has been a lot easier than I thought it would be. When I came here I was terrified, and I had no idea where to start rebuilding what was left of my existence. I was able to obtain, without much difficulty actually, new papers and and a new name; Adela Dagbar. As far as anyone back home knows, I'm just another missing persons' case. My parent's mourned via an overindulgent "memorial" service, even though as far as they're concerned I could very well still be alive. Guess I'm not wrong about their disdain for an imperfect daughter; so willing to write me off the first chance they got. I hear they adopted twins from some underdeveloped country, just like all of their peers and favorite movie stars. They're so stereotypical it makes me sick to my stomach. Disadvantaged children are just a fashion accessory these days, and while it's fantastic that they're given the chance for a new and better life, it's still a bit sad to me that they're really just a fad. How many will be saved after it goes out of style? A lot of them are probably forgotten once the initial "new car" syndrome passes. In any case, at least now my folks have another shot at raising smiling, perfect debutante kids, God help them; the children, that is.

Angelica is filing for death in absentia with the permission of my ever grieving parents, so that she can fully inherit the Azalea Group. I'm hoping they grant it to her, it will relieve a lot of mental stress if I'm declared legally dead. One can only hope, seeing as it hasn't been technically long enough since I fled for her to do that. I try not thinking about my girls, Kerri, Greta, Monica, but it's hard. The pain of payment will fade in time, but it will never stop being hard to cope with starting over from scratch. Being isolated again was heartbreaking, especially after how exposed and wounded I was when I ran away, but I'm happy to admit that's mostly over now. Ironically enough, when I first arrived and was migrating from hostel to hostel, I got word that there was an "underground" place where a woman could make a lot of money. It wasn't hard to follow the breadcrumb trail to Rashaan Kostas, the foreman of a the most prominent whorehouse in all of Prague.

He didn't give it up so easily, in fact he was quite the fighter, but it should go without saying that he's no longer anyone's problem; I however, am. Dum Kvetin is my new home, and the home of any woman who was previously under Kostas' perverted tyranny. They work for me now, and no longer have to sell themselves for anyone's profit, least of all mine. They're generously paid escorts, and I, their Okasan. I'm fully retired now. Not only would it be dangerous to bring any more attention to myself, I'm just tired. I'm fine sitting on my new throne and watching the girls thrive. I take a more active roll in the lives of my girls than I did with the Azalea Group; partly because they need me more, but mostly because I need them. I need to keep myself sane and healthy through human contact. I don't ever want to make the same mistake I did back in London. I don't want to be alone anymore, and I'm not. It's refreshing. Dum Kvetin is a building in which myself and all my girls reside; the rooms where women previously had to "perform" in have all been refurnished into comfortable living spaces, and no one from the outside is allowed past the foyer to make appointments. We're all family here, in our bright and happy little compound.

As content as I am in my new home, at the head of my new empire, I can't help but be burdened by the overbearing weight still sitting inside of my heart. I was so ready to end it. So ready to be done, to be rid of James, of _that man_ , the one who made me fall for him and uprooted my life. He fucked me up so hard I killed him; well, I tried anyways. I pulled the trigger, and if it had been the right man he'd be dead. It would all be over...but it isn't. I should probably feel remorse for ending the life of yet an innocent man, but I haven't the energy. Anyone under James' command is a threat to me, and I won't be threatened; not anymore. I'll be lying if I say I'm not still looking over my shoulder at every corner, avoiding every wiry, well dressed, dark haired man I see, but I am, and I do.

_"I need you to love me because if you love me and I want to love you, even if I can't, it's still the same, right? It's what I want! I want to keep you, and you'll only let me keep you if you love me."_

I think about his words every day, and sometimes it doesn't hurt; sometimes it makes me wish I were really dead. In a perfect world, Robert would be alive, the Azalea Company would be fully in Angelica's hands, and James and I would be in Prague together, drinking and enjoying how wonderful everything here is. Sometimes I lament that I can't share it with him, despite how ready I was for him to be gone. Why is love so complicated? Love isn't the right word. I never loved James. How could I? I know so little about him, truly. Maybe that's why I haven't been able to let it all go, because he's a mystery, a puzzle to be solved, a complicated and beautiful word-search. I want to understand why, why he chose to do everything he did, why he focused himself so completely on me, but I never will, and it drives me insane. Sometimes I wonder if even he knows why. It's a constant self-fulfilling prophecy of me mourning Robert, missing Robert, mourning and missing James, and feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet for even lending a thought in James' direction after what he did, but I still do. I miss him. I miss them both. I often muse about what James will do if he does ever find me. In fact, I'll be surprised if he isn't just biding his time again, waiting until the perfect moment to really knock the wind out of me. Sometimes I wonder if it's just a matter of time and opportunity.

I've done my best to separate myself from my previous life; I have one contact that feeds me information, but he's a remote hacker I hired and strictly keeps me updated with the goings on of my old business and friends' lives. Sometimes I think even that may be too risky. The ghost of James is everywhere; his laugh, his smug grins, that shrug, _the fucking_ gum. I can feel it all like he's still here, like he's a lucid memory following me around. I guess I was right about planning to kill someone close to you being a damnably intimate gesture. It seems almost unfair that not only did he end my well constructed previous life, he's still lingering here in the new one.

I take a sip of my chrysanthemum tea, and it's just shy of too hot. Right before I power down the little computer in my small, but comfortable room, the ping of a new email rings out. I no longer own a cellular phone, nor will I use one to speak to anyone. The only way to contact me is via email or by calling the land-line here at Dum Kvetin. Hesitating, I turn the monitor off without checking the notification and call it a night. Whatever it is can wait. Long gone are the days where working around the clock is a normalcy. I've taught myself to breathe and allow my mind and body more downtime. Flipping off my bedside lamp, I crawl under the covers and close my eyes. I sleep just fine without my pills now.

 

I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of birds chirping abroad. I can smell food wafting under my door and follow it to the dining room where I smile to see my wards laughing and enjoying their breakfast. I move to the kitchen and leave the ladies to their meal and gossip. As I'm preparing food for myself, my concierge appears in the doorway. "Madame Dagbar?"

Her French accent is heavy in the words, something that only happens when she's quite upset, and I ask her the cause, abandoning my plate. "You have a phone call. I fear it's one of urgency."

My heart leaps to my throat but I do my best to appear calm, something I'm now well practiced in again. I had lost some of my edge in the wake of all that's happened. Nodding, I thank her and move to the closest phone in the foyer. She doesn't follow. My hand trembles over the receiver, but I pick it up with purpose, stifling my growing unease. "Adela Dagbar."

The reception is choked with static, but I hear a voice ring through. "Adela, it's Wallace."

My pulse begins to race. It's my hacker. Clearing my throat, I ask him why he's called instead of emailing me. Him reaching me by phone is both unsettling and risky. "I'm sorry. I sent you an email last night, but you never replied."

Shit. I'd forgotten to look at the correspondence I ignored before going to bed last night. Why is it always the ones you don't check that are important? "I apologize, it slipped my mind. What's going on?"

Silence save for the crackling line. My hand is starting to hurt, and I try to calm myself enough to loosen my grip on the phone. "Wallace?"

I hear him sigh through the white noise. "I've sent you the link to a video. I suggest you take a look."

The fact that he won't tell me over the phone is unsettling, but I thank him and tell him I'll go watch it immediately. When I place the receiver back into the cradle, I still myself. Count backwards, remain calm. As hard as I try, I can't. I know it's about James, just I know it, and I'm not sure I'm ready to face what I'll see when I check my email.

A few girls raise their heads as I brush past, but I'm fixed on the goal ahead of me. When I reach my room I pull out and boot up my portable laptop; I use this computer exclusively to communicate with Wallace using a near untraceable deep web address that leads to a simple forum based page we use to correspond. Using the deep web is risky business, but it's the closest I can get to anonymity, so I have an alert sent to my traditional email when I have a new message. I sit down and try to still my heartbeat . The message contains nothing save a link to a news website, my worst fears realized when I click on it and see it's one from the U.K. The title blared "Reign of Maniacal Criminal Mastermind Comes to an End."

I pause no longer, and play the video. The first play through, all I see is mashed up colors, hear garbled voices. I blink several times, trying to make sense of what I've just seen. Click. Faces, words, bodies. Click. Suits, blood, crowds. Click. James. When it all starts to come together, I pray for my mind to catch up with me, but it's still scrambling. I can't breathe, but I click play again anyways. There's a woman, and she's talking about a detective; Sherlock. I remember the name. I also seem to remember slapping him in the face. He's Mycroft Holmes' brother, and I do recall him being some sort of detective. I gasp when I see his body, matted with blood, swarmed by civilians. Then she starts talking about the criminal. Fleeting pictures of crime scenes, of James in a suit and tie, James in a crown. It feels like my insides are melting. I know what James is, but seeing it all laid out in front of me now is staggering. It dawns on me now why James hadn't been in attendance the night I met Sherlock. He stole the fucking Crown Jewels! I feel foolish for all the times I questioned the extent of his reach. Then there's more blood, a well dressed corpse. My hand goes involuntarily to my mouth. The words and colors start to bleed together again but I try to make sense of as much as I can. The words, "Detective," "jumped from a building," and, "gruesome alleged double suicide," seem to ring the clearest.

I click the pause button and it's just a picture of James' face, his head in a pool of blood, open-mouthed smile upon it, and I've started to cry, unable to decide what about all of this upsets me the most. James is gone. I feel a great sense of relief in the knowledge of his passing. I'm finally free, free from his grasp, free from my paranoia. I can finally live my life without worry he'll come crashing back into it again. James is dead. My eyes well further, and I realize that the reality of seeing his body is what I find truly disturbing. Memories flood my mind; of our time together, his touch, his kiss, his games, our games, his mind, which now lay wasted and broken on the ground around him. Why? Why did he do it? Why would such a man, a man capable of such brilliance and possessing so much worldly power take his own life? More importantly, why am I so shaken in his wake? I myself took what I thought was his life with no remorse. Now he's taken what I planned to steal from him, and I find myself inexplicably mourning.

Rising from my chair I near jog down to the foyer, past the girls laughing and playing with each other's hair. They seem to know I'm in a tizzy and stare at me with questioning faces. Picking up the phone, I dial Wallace's number and it rings until the line goes dead. He never answers phone calls, only instigates them himself. When it finally rings I snatch it into my hands. "He's finally gone, Adela."

My breath hitches and I nod, realize he can't see me, and reply, "Yes. He is."

The picture of him in a crown melds with the other, the one full of blood, and I scramble to numb myself to them both. "Why don't you sound as relieved as you should?"

My free hand covers and rubs at my eyes. "Um..." Taking a deep, I try not to choke on my words. "It's just a little too much to take in at once. Sensory overload."

He seems to accept my excuse, because he says, "I'm sorry. I get that- I mean, I understand."

"Thank you. That will be all, Wallace."

Shaking, my hand slowly lowers the receiver into the cradle. I nearly collapse into the wall behind me but think of the girls, and steal away to an empty room to fall apart instead. I crash down into the door behind me. My face is hot and I don't know what to do, to think. _We were so close._ He made me feel like no one else ever has before, he made me crave him. He's the only human being I've ever craved. _He lied to me_. He was so deceitful, a snake, he was dishonest about everything, even in the beginning. Even about being paid to take my own life. _I loved fucking him._ He was a God beneath the sheets, no matter the time or place, and we always melded perfectly. _Robert._ He had hand in my best friend being tortured and losing his life. They sent me his finger in a pink fucking box.

All of that, everything I remember, everything I want, everything I don't want, is all over. Because James is dead, it's gone, it's ended. No tied up loose strings, no closure, just a hard slap in the face of a wounded animal. Again. I'm up off the floor before I even realize I'm angry. Really and truly angry. Screaming, I tear the curtains from their rod and throw it all across the room. I go to the little desk and smash everything I lay hands on, until it all crashes to the floor around me. I cry out again and strike a rickety mirror into pieces. Panting, I look at the blood on my hands. It reminds me of the night I was attacked at my house, the night James saved my life, the one he promised to take away. This is all too much. I've been stripped of my best friend and...I don't even know what to call James anymore. Lover, demon, once a friend. Despite all of this, a part of me still doesn't want it to be over, and that kills me. I should be happy that Robert's death has been avenged completely, that the people responsible for his death are gone. I am, and I'm not. What does that make me? A monster, like James? A knock at the door pauses my thought, and Dusana, one of my girls, walks in. "Adela?"

I turn, and her eyes widen when she sees the blood, but makes no move toward me, nor does she comment on our destroyed surroundings. "We heard you crying out...I wanted to see if you were okay."

I nod, wishing I could wipe the tears off of my face. "Not really, but we can't be okay all the time, can we?"

Her face warms, and she smiles, seeming to understand. "No, we cannot."

"Could you please see to this room getting put back together? Have Nina give cleanup a call. I need some fresh air."

I gaze at the blood drying and flaking on my skin and the wounds on my knuckles and fingers. Dusana nods, "Of course, Adela," and promptly leaves the room.

 

I've been walking so long it's almost evening; through the markets, around a park, just walking. I've long stopped actively thinking about today's events or my feelings toward them, I just need some time to breathe and clear my head. I thought that part of my life ended when I came to Prague, but you can't run away from your past, can you? You can walk a million miles and never be able to truly hide from it, especially when it's name is James Moriarty. He truly is the worst thing that's ever happened to me. So much changed when he entered my life. So many things ended, and also many beginnings, not all for the better. How can any one person have such a domino effect on another's existence? It's not fair. I thought all was healed, all was back to mostly normal when I came here and started my new life, a life that I actually enjoy quite a bit, yet James continues to find ways to upend everything I work so hard to put back together.

Clutching my coat around me, I glance around, not realizing how far from home I've wandered. I need to get back; no need to keep the house on edge any longer, and I definitely needed to clean the scrapes and cuts on my knuckles with more care. Taking a deep breath and pushing it out my lungs, I turn around toward a shortcut I know fairly well. It's not until the sun is fading fast that I begin to become uneasy. It's that feeling that tingles the back of your neck until you turn around, expecting a monster to be there, watching you, following you. I quickly brush the thought aside and continue down the street. That's when the whispers start. I turn and look in every direction; the few people on the street alongside me aren't speaking, and don't seem to hear what I'm hearing. Heart in my throat, I pick up my pace and try to think of logical explanations. A TV or radio through an open window, an animal, anything. Just when I start to feel like I'm losing my mind, I pass a dark alley and just barely register a voice. "Here kitty kitty kitty..."

All color drains from my face and I go cold, even huddled inside my jacket. Despite my fear, I remain still, staring down the alley, willing the words uttered by a real, tangible person. Someone just calling their cat home for supper, but there's nobody there. The alley dead ends with a brick wall, and not a soul is in sight. I'm losing my fucking mind.

I decide to turn back, to return to the main road, fuck shortcuts. I need to be around more people, to ground myself in reality. I jog back the way I came and pretend not to hear the footsteps behind me. Once I reach my destination I turn around to nothing, panting. No one is there, no one is behind me, save a few people that saw me running giving me odd looks. I melt back into the crowd, happy to be surrounded by the public eye, happy that the whispers have stopped. The crowd parts in front of me just enough, and I see him there. Fear has me frozen and I can't breathe. All I see is a suit and dark hair before civilians once again pass in front of me. When there's an opening again, he's gone. There's no way this is real, he's dead, he's gone, he's dead! I saw his face, I saw the news! There's no way he could possibly... "James?!"

I yell and begin running again, not away, but towards where I saw him. I'm tired of running. All I've been doing since I met James is running away; from myself, from my feelings, from him. The time for running away is through. When I reach the spot where he stood, I see another alley, and despite common sense I turn into it, ignoring all of the people I bumped into on the way, not bothering to apologize. Then the whispers start again. "Here kitty kitty kitty..."

There's an open door to one of the buildings that forms the alley and I go to it, tentatively stepping through the threshold, and there's nothing but darkness and silence. "James."

I call out to him, and nothing answers. I see a light come on in another room. I'm not scared, though I very well should be. I have to finish this, to end this. I have to know. When I turn the corner an move into the lighted room, it's empty. Surprise, surprise. This is a mistake, I'm out of my head and I need to go home, get some rest, give myself some time to process. The man I saw was not James, if there had been a man at all. There are no voices following me, I've just had some kind of sickening mental break, and need to get out of this creaky building before I run into living, breathing trouble. Taking a deep breath, I turn around and find my way back to the street. I need to stop chasing ghosts. James is dead, and that may be hard to accept, or cope with, but it's time for me to take this opportunity to finally let it go and live my life; my new life.

 

When I'm safely settled in my room with the local news muffling softly in the background on my T.V., I boot up my computer once more. I'm still shaken; nothing makes me question my sanity more than an unwelcome bout of hallucinations...well,  _hopefully_ hallucinations. Even after dealing with Sleep Paralysis most of my life, I've never gotten used to them, but in this situation I'd  _much_ rather be loony. I did fix myself some iced pearl tea with lavender oil, and it has been working wonders on my nerves since I returned. While I nurse my tea and catch up on some paperwork, I have an idea. I decide to get ahold of Wallace again and ask after Monica and Moosh; hearing they're doing well always helps ground and calm me. Rolling my chair over to a cleaner part of my desk, I pull out my special laptop and get it started up. It doesn't take long to reach our forum, and I type out the code phrase to assure it's Wallace I'm talking to. I can see that he's online; the times he isn't are few and far between, the web is his life. I stare at the cursor blink for dozens of seconds, but receive no reply, which is odd because it doesn't seem to me like he'd have the computer he uses to access the deep net left open and online if he were away from it. Maybe I'm just being impatient. Suddenly the tell-tale ellipses springs to life indicating that Wallace is typing. I breathe a relieved sigh that quickly peters off and turns into a whimper when text finally does appear, and I read and reread it.

_"Here, kitty kitty kitty..."_

Oh no. What does this mean?! Has it been Wallace somehow playing a cruel joke on me all day? That can't be possible. Wallace has always been wholly professional with me, and it just doesn't seem like something he would just... _do,_ for no real reason. Forgetting one important detail sealing the nail in the coffin of the idea that this is somehow actually Wallace's doing, that being, he wouldn't know what that phrase would mean to me, unless...unless James got to him. I don't waste time trying to get to the bottom of it and shut the computer down immediately. My face and neck are flushing as my heart accelerates blood through my veins at an alarming rate while I weigh my options. One of three things can have occurred that I can think of. One, Wallace has been compromised and is in danger, or possibly dead. James somehow discovered his connection and hunted him down to get to me. Second, is that Wallace could have been bribed or bought out by James and sold what little of my information he has on me to him. In these cases, all I have to worry about is getting a new landline and having my current one disconnected and removed from anything it may be listed on, which isn't much. I've never given Wallace any information about myself beyond what has been absolutely necessary, and I've been explicitly careful with him. The final and most alarming possibility is that Wallace has been working for James the entire time I've employed him, and if that is the case, I'm just  _fucked,_ because that means James knows precisely where I am, and it would explain my horrifying walk earlier in the day. 

I want to cry, and can feel hot tears stinging to break free, causing me to furiously wipe at my eyes. Only rarely does the assumption that you're  _not_ losing your mind bring you less comfort than other viable options. There's a knock at my door that scares me almost witless, and I tentatively ask my guest to enter. It's my concierge, telling me I have another call waiting. I hear a familiar ringing in my ears as I nod, force a smile, and follow her downstairs. The receiver of my phone is resting off the hook, and even though I know it's all in my imagination it feels like it's taunting me. My hands are shaking but I pick it up and lift it to my ear.

"Hello, may please I ask who's speaking?"

The silence is long and full of unanswered questions, but after a time I begin hearing a faint noise my mind eventually recognizes as a light, purring laughter. Another moment passes and a tear slides down my cheek and settles itself in the crack of my closed lips where it sits until I lick it away, and I have no idea what string of emotions it formerly belonged to before its escape.

"Oh, don't act like you weren't expecting me darlin', weren't you listening when I said I'd find you?"


End file.
